


Knights of the Air

by riventhorn



Category: Merlin BBC
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Battle of Britain, Childhood Friends, Fighter Pilots, M/M, Minor Character Death, Reconciliation, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-16
Updated: 2010-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:29:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the summer of 1940, and the Battle of Britain rages in the skies. As the Luftwaffe sends hundreds of bombers and fighters to prepare the way for an invasion, it is up to the pilots of the RAF to stop them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to baba_o_reily for suggesting the idea of a Battle of Britain AU. And many, many thanks to my amazing betas, vesperdivum and maryavatar.
> 
> The wonderful artwork was created by amphigoury. Go [here](http://amphigoury.livejournal.com/4412.html) to leave a comment on her art.
> 
> There are numerous songs in the fic--I've tried to provide links to youtube in order to hear what they sound like.

[](http://s1181.photobucket.com/user/riventhorn/media/Merlin/koa___poster_by_amphigoury-d31sbpn-1_zps11437cb8.jpg.html)

_“Every morn brought forth a noble chance. And every chance brought forth a noble knight.’”_

\--Winston Churchill, June 4, 1940, quoting Alfred Lord Tennyson

_July 16, 1940_

“This is the BBC Home Service. Earlier today, Adolf Hitler issued what he has called his ‘Final Appeal to Reason’ to the British government. I quote: ‘A great Empire will be destroyed, an Empire which it was never my intention to destroy or even to harm. . . . I consider myself in a position to make this appeal since I am not the vanquished begging favors, but the victor speaking in the name of reason.’

Ever since the French signed an armistice with Germany a month ago, the Germans have been pressuring our government to negotiate a peace treaty. The Prime Minister has continued to rebuff such advances and remains confident that if the Germans do invade, we shall repel them. Many Britons share Churchill’s confidence. Today, in response to Hitler’s declaration, Sefton Delmer, a writer for the _Daily Express_ , announced: ‘Let me tell you what we here in Britain think of this appeal of yours to what you are pleased to call our reason and common sense. Herr Fuhrer and Reichskanzler, we hurl it right back at you, right in your evil smelling teeth.’

With the government and populace holding firm, there can be no doubt that Germany will launch an invasion within a matter of days. The War Office expects heavy bombing raids to precede any movement of troops over the Channel. Even as we speak, Fighter Command is readying its pilots to meet the attacks. As the Prime Minister said, ‘the “Battle of France” is over. I expect that the battle of Britain is about to begin.’”

**

_July 28, 1940. 1300 hours. Day 12._

The lorry rattled to a halt, and he jumped out, slinging his kitbag over his shoulder. The driver waved, and he gave a little salute back. A smile was already creeping over his face. He could smell the petrol; hear the riggers and fitters shouting at each other. The lorry pulled off, and as it drew away, the airfield materialized in front of him. There they were—green and brown paint gleaming, the perfect symmetry of the wings and nose taking his breath away. Ten Spitfires, quiet now, but waiting eagerly, ready to spring into the sky when the call came.

[](http://s1181.photobucket.com/user/riventhorn/media/Merlin/koa___arrival_by_amphigoury-d31sbny-1_zps865d3498.jpg.html)

A voice shouted, and he turned reluctantly towards the pilot’s ready room. A pilot was stepping out the door, shrugging on his jacket. The silver wings on the left breast caught the light, and he couldn’t help touching the wings that decorated his own jacket, sparkling jauntily against the dark blue cloth.

The pilot had a tanned, handsome face, stretched into an easy smile. “You must be the new chap,” he said, coming over, holding out his hand. “Here to replace poor old Canby.”

“Yes. I’m Paul. Paul Emmeris.”

“Harry Morris,” the man replied. “But you can call me Lancelot.”

He couldn’t help the laugh that burst out. “Lancelot?”

The man grinned. “Lance for short.”

“Because he’s the noblest sod you’ll ever have the misfortune to meet,” a new voice commented. Two more pilots ducked out the door, jamming their hands in their pockets.

“That’s Davies,” Lance said, nodding at the man who had spoken. “But he’s known as Tristan around here. Unlucky in love is poor Tristan, I’m afraid.”

“Pay no attention to that rubbish.” Tristan waved a hand. “The girls can’t wait to get their hands on me. You stick close, and I’ll put in a good word for you.”

The third man snorted. He was large, well-muscled, and probably had a job squeezing into the confines of a Spitfire’s cockpit. “Don’t even consider it,” he advised. “The last time I let him put in a good word for me, it turned out the girl already had a date. A sailor. Very jealous fellow. I earned a black-eye for my troubles.”

Tristan pretended to look hurt. “Surely you don’t blame me for that, Gawain? How was I to know she was lying?”

“That’s what you always say,” Gawain replied gloomily.

“You really all have nicknames after the knights of Camelot? Really?” Paul asked, looking between the three of them.

“Our squadron is known as the ‘Round Table,’” Lance said. “Arthur even had an actual round table hauled into the mess room.”

“Arthur?” he repeated, and he felt a surge of trepidation. Surely it couldn’t be—

“Arthur Penderley,” Tristan said, lighting a cigarette. “Our very own King Arthur. He acts like it, too—doesn’t care what the CO’s orders are. Mind you, it’s saved our arses a few times, so I’m not complaining.”

Arthur Penderley. He had been assigned to the same squadron as Arthur. Oh, _bloody_ hell.

The vain hope that perhaps there was another Arthur Penderley wandering around Britain died as the door to the ready room opened once more. His eyes flitted away, not wanting Arthur to see the hurt, the questions, the anger that he couldn’t repress. But no—he, at least, was not a coward. He forced his eyes back, taking in the relaxed set of Arthur’s shoulders. He wore a silk scarf tied casually around his neck, the top buttons of his jacket open.

“ _Merlin_? Arthur exclaimed. “Oh, this is brilliant!” And he threw back his head, laughing.

The sound of Arthur’s laugh, hearing that name— _his_ name—in Arthur’s voice—it brought a deluge of memories sweeping down. The clatter of wooden swords, the melting sweetness of candyfloss and the roar of the Avro Avian’s engines, the shocking cold of the winter air after the heat of the club and the feel of Arthur’s mouth on his.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Arthur continued. “Putting you in the cockpit of a Spitfire is a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Well I _am_ a pilot, and there haven’t been any disasters. And there won’t be any,” he gritted out, glaring.

“You know each other, I take it?” Lance said, glancing between them.

“Unfortunately,” Merlin muttered. _Merlin_. Well, there was nothing for it now. He had tried to stop using that name, after—after the last time he saw Arthur. It was just a stupid nickname. A stupid name from a time that Arthur clearly didn’t recall in the same way he did. And yet somehow it had always seemed to fit him better than his own name. He had told his friends to use it, let them think it was because of his love of aeroplanes, for the Merlin engine that whirred in every Spitfire.

“Now, Merlin, what a horrible thing to say.” Arthur tilted his head to one side. “What about all those fond childhood memories?”

No mention of memories from the _last_ time they had seen each other, of course. “I remember you hitting me with that stupid wooden sword,” Merlin retorted. “Not anything particularly pleasant about that.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “I hope you’ve been practicing your magic spells, Merlin. Might come in handy when you have a Messerschmitt on your tail.” He brushed past, knocking his shoulder against Merlin’s. “Did you manage to come up with a spell to get you through flight training?”

Arthur didn’t wait for a reply, sauntering out onto the field.

“I didn’t need a spell!” Merlin shouted after him. “I’m as good a pilot as you are!”

Arthur ignored him, ducking under one of the Spitfires and running his hand over the fuselage. A row of painted Iron Crosses decorated the nose, and Merlin spared a spiteful moment hoping it was someone else’s plane and not Arthur’s—that some other pilot was well on his way to becoming an ace.

“Come on, Merlin,” Lance said. “I’ll show you to your quarters.”

Merlin forced himself to take a deep breath and turn away from Arthur. He strode alongside Lance towards the barracks. They passed more planes—Hurricanes this time. In addition to their own 64 Squadron, 111 Squadron and 501 Squadron were also posted at Kenley.

“You’ll be sharing with Tristan, now that Canby’s gone,” Lance offered.

“What, um, happened to him?” Merlin asked hesitantly, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Went into the drink,” Lance replied. “He’d drowned by the time a boat got to him.”

“Oh.” Merlin suppressed a shiver, thinking of the icy water of the Channel. “Rotten luck.”

Lance shrugged. “He had an Me 109 on him—persistent blighter. Arthur took it out, but it was too late.”

“Arthur’s a good shot, then?” Merlin asked grudgingly.

“Highest number of confirmed kills in the squadron.” Lance sighed and for a moment a deep weariness bled into his voice. “Doesn’t matter how many we take out, though. There’s always more.”

Almost three weeks since the Germans had started bombing convoys in the Channel, and Merlin knew that the RAF had been running ceaseless patrols. With France gone, and the fiasco at Dunkirk, an air of tense expectation had settled over the country, everyone expecting word of an invasion to come with the evening news. 11 Group, located in the southeast, closest to France and with the best chance of scrambling in time to intercept the enemy, had been bearing the brunt of the attack. When Merlin had found out he was going to be posted to Kenley, right in the middle of 11 Group, the other pilots in his training unit had given him their congratulations.  
“You’ll be going straight into the fighting—no waiting about at one of those cold, boring airfields up in Scotland,” they had said, and Merlin had grinned because he wanted to fight. But a nervous trepidation had been shadowing him, too, ever since receiving his orders.

“According to Fighter Command, we’ve been taking out our fair share of Jerries,” Merlin ventured.

Lance snorted. “Fighter Command. What the bloody hell do they know?”

They had reached the barracks and were climbing a narrow staircase. Lance paused, glancing at Merlin. “All that stuff they taught you in training—formation flying, opening fire at six hundred and fifty yards—it’s rubbish.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “When you’re up there, Merlin, you have to keep it loose and you have to get in close. Otherwise you won’t hit a damn thing and there’ll be bullets ripping up your cockpit.”

“But—but what about all the formations we learned?” Merlin stammered, feeling a sudden wave of panic. “When you’re attacking bombers, aren’t you supposed to attack from astern and—”

“There are about five bombers for every one of us,” Lance said, cutting him off. “Not to mention the fighter escort—109s and 110s. We try to get high enough so we can dive down at them, but they get here so damned quickly…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “The CO still wants to do it by the book, but when we’re up there, do what Arthur says.”

“Arthur,” Merlin said flatly. “If you think I’m going to do what _he_ says, you’re bloody crazy.”

“I don’t know what history you two have,” Lance replied, “but he’s the best, Merlin. He’s saved _my_ life. More than once.”

Lance started up the stairs again, and Merlin followed glumly. Of course Arthur was the best. He had always been the best at everything, always got the flashy cars, an aeroplane of his own. Arthur only deigned to notice people like Merlin when it suited his purposes. And when he did—angrily, Merlin pushed the thought away. He wasn’t going to think about it. Arthur had been drunk and based on his behavior today he obviously felt that entire night had been a joke.

Lance left him in his room, and Merlin slowly unpacked his things. Tristan’s clothes were scattered about, along with newspapers and empty packs of cigarettes. His side of the room was bare—all traces of Canby wiped away.

Merlin wandered over to the window and looked out on the Kenley airfield. Fog crept along the outskirts of the smooth grass, low clouds touching the tops of the trees, but it would probably clear this evening. Tomorrow he would be climbing into the cockpit, strapping on his helmet, starting the engine. Finding out that Arthur was here had dimmed his earlier excitement, but now it returned. He could already feel the controls humming under him, the contours of the throttle smooth against his palm and then lifting off—hovering for a split second before soaring up into the sky.

Sighing, Merlin rested his head against the glass. Why did Arthur have to be here? Just seeing him brought back so many damn memories. Things Merlin didn’t want to remember any more.

**

_June, 1929_

Twigs snapped under his shoes as he pushed his way through the bushes. He should really be going home for dinner, but he was afraid that Mr. Collins might come, and he would have to sit there and be polite. He didn’t like the way Mr. Collins smiled at his mother or the way she smiled back. Mr. Collins wasn’t his father. He hated how Mr. Collins said, “there’s a good boy, Paul” like he was five years old. He was almost nine, and he could look after his mother. They didn’t need anyone else.

The branches gave way before him, and he stumbled out into a small clearing. He often came here when he wanted to be alone. The trees towered up on all sides, and he could sink down into the grass until all he could see were the tops of the trees and the sky high above him. Sometimes an aeroplane flew over, and he would leap up, chasing after it through the woods until the sound of the engine faded.

But this time—this time there was another boy already here. The boy looked up, startled. A black dog was standing next to him and it barked, once, sharp and quick. The boy clutched a wooden sword in his hand.

“What are you doing here?” Paul demanded.

The boy drew himself up and glared. “This happens to be my property. So I should be asking you that. You’re trespassing.”

“I am not!” Paul retorted, outraged. This was _his_ particular place.

“Yes, you are.” The boy gestured at his dog. “I could have Bristol chase you off.”

“I’m not afraid of your dog,” Paul said, although he gave Bristol a wary glance.

The boy scowled. “I’ll tell my father. He’ll have the coppers arrest you.”

“They won’t,” Paul said, although his voice wavered.

“Yes, they will. My father owns the manor, after all, and most of the land round here.” The boy gave the trees a disparaging look, as though he wasn’t sure the land was worth owning.

Paul bristled. He wasn’t about to back down, although he did remember his mother mentioning that someone was living in the Penderley manor again. He had often ridden his bicycle past the manor, which stood at the end of a long, winding drive. Some of the other children in the village claimed it was haunted, and even though Paul didn’t believe in ghosts, he always shivered a little, looking at the shuttered windows and the ivy creeping over the walls. “I was just walking,” he said. “I wasn’t _trespassing_. What are you doing, anyway?”

The boy held up his sword. “Hunting dragons.”

“Here?” Paul scoffed.

The boy ignored his comment. “I’m King Arthur, and Bristol is my trusty knight, Sir Pellinore.” He touched his sword to Bristol’s shoulder.

“You aren’t King Arthur,” Paul said, wishing he had a sword like that. He often improvised and used sticks when a weapon was called for—during such exciting moments as a pirate raid or Boers storming the walls of the fort—but this was really shaped like a sword, and painted, too.

The boy lifted his chin. “My name is Arthur. So I can be King Arthur if I want to.” He gave Paul a considering look. “You can be Merlin, if you like.”

“I don’t want to be Merlin,” Paul said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You can help me find Excalibur!” Arthur exclaimed. “Of course, the Lady of the Lake is the one who really gave King Arthur Excalibur, but we’ll pretend that you did. Come on!” And without looking to see if Paul was really coming, he set off into the woods, Bristol bounding along beside him.

Paul glanced over his shoulder in the direction of home. He was already late for dinner; he should really go back. And he didn’t want to play King Arthur. This Arthur was annoying and rude. But he found himself following Arthur anyway, running after him to catch up.

Arthur stopped on the shores of a shallow pond. The rooftops of the manor were just visible over the trees. Bristol immediately splashed into the water and then leaped back out again, shaking vigorously. “Ready?” Arthur asked.

“Ready for what?” Paul started to say, but Arthur was already drawing his arm back. With a heave, he tossed the sword into the pond. There was a loud plop and then silence.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Arthur waved at the water. “Go find Excalibur for me, Merlin.”

“My name isn’t Merlin,” Paul said. “And I’m not going in there. I’ll get all wet!”

“I have to have Excalibur!” Arthur gave him a little push. “How else will I defeat all the giants and dragons? You’re supposed to be a sorcerer, Merlin.”

He protested, but Arthur kept shoving him closer to the water.

“ _Please_ , Merlin?” Arthur finally said.

“Fine, then,” he muttered, and he waded out into the water. It was cold and muddy.

“A little more to the left, I think,” Arthur called from the bank. Bristol splashed back in, barking excitedly.

After fishing around for a while and getting the sleeves of his shirt all wet, not to mention his short trousers, he finally felt the smooth wooden hilt under his fingers. He drew it out triumphantly, holding it above his head.

Arthur insisted that he kneel on the ground and hold out the sword in his hands. Arthur took it gravely. “Thank you, Merlin. With this sword we shall conquer all the lands and build a great kingdom.”

Bristol licked his face, and he clambered to his feet. “I have to go,” he said. “My mum will be worrying about me.”

“Oh.” For a second, Arthur looked disappointed, but then he turned away. “Well, I’ll see you around, I suppose. Come on, boy.” He whistled for Bristol, and they started walking back to the manor, Arthur swinging Excalibur in his hand.

Mr. Collins was there when he got home, his clothes still dripping wet. His mother scolded him, and bundled him into a warm blanket. “You listen to your mum, Paul,” Mr. Collins said. “Don’t you go making trouble for her.”

“My name is Merlin,” he retorted and stuck out his tongue.

“Paul, darling,” his mother said, “don’t be rude. And what is this about being called Merlin?”

“Merlin was a sorcerer—with King Arthur,” he said, obediently putting on the thick pair of socks his mother handed him, even though they were wool and scratchy. “I met a boy called Arthur today. He’s King Arthur, and I’m Merlin.”

“Yes, dear,” his mother said, ruffling his hair. “Now let’s eat supper. And don’t slouch in your chair like that.”

**

_July 28, 1940. 1430 hours. Day 12._

Mr. Collins hadn’t lasted, but Arthur had stayed. He could still hear the bell ringing on Arthur’s bicycle as he dropped it by the front stairs, his knock on the door, his voice asking, “Is Merlin here, Mrs. Emmeris?” All that summer, they had pedaled their bicycles madly over the hills, pretending they were riding horses into battle. They had raced through the woods with Bristol running beside them, hunting dragons. And Arthur had held court on a fallen log, Merlin at his side, whispering spells that revealed the ugly troll pretending to be a fair princess.

_“Carry my coat for me, Merlin…Because I’m the king! A king doesn’t carry his own coat.”_

_“Do you have to trip over everything, Merlin? We’ll never be able to sneak up on anything with you around.”_

_“There aren’t any more sandwiches—I ate the last one…Well, you should have said something, then! It’s not my fault.”_

Merlin drew out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, still staring out the window. Arthur had always been a bastard. An arrogant, privileged, selfish bastard. Well, he would just have to manage. He could nod politely, ignore Arthur unless absolutely necessary.

**

As usual, any plans and expectations Merlin had concerning Arthur failed spectacularly. He had unpacked his bag and then hurried down to the CO’s office, anxious to report in. The sound of raised voices—one of them Arthur’s—stopped him outside the door, and he paused, listening.

“You’re telling me that he only has four weeks of training? Less than a hundred hours in the cockpit? What the hell does the Reserve think they’re doing?” Arthur demanded.

“You know as well as I do, Penderley, that we need pilots more than we need planes,” an unknown voice, presumably the CO, replied. “All those lovely new Spitfires Beaverbrook is promising us? Who’s going to fly them? We haven’t got time to coddle along new recruits.”

“ _Coddle_? I’m talking about adequate training! You don’t know Merlin, sir, but I do, and if you think that he’s capable of flying in combat after four weeks—”

“We need the pilots, and he’s been certified to fly,” the CO said, cutting Arthur off. “He’ll be going up tomorrow.”

“Very well, sir,” Arthur replied in a tight, angry voice. “But I want him to be my wingman.”

A pause. “Fine. But I don’t want any complaints, Penderley. From either of you.”

Merlin had been growing increasingly angry as soon as he realized they were talking about him. How dare Arthur go to the CO, casting aspersions on Merlin’s flying ability? Arthur had never even _seen_ him fly.

The door opened, and Arthur stepped out. He stopped short when he saw Merlin.

“Don’t think I’m capable, do you?” Merlin demanded, trying to keep his voice low. “Just because I didn’t have a rich father to buy me an aeroplane? Just because I wasn’t flying at one of your fancy clubs?”

Arthur tensed, his jaw tightening. “It’s a question of _experience_ —”

“And how will I get any if I’m not allowed in a plane?”

“Flying is one thing—combat is completely different. If you go up there now, you’ll be a sitting duck. A Jerry will get you before you even know he’s there.”

“You just think anyone who doesn’t have thousands of pounds, who didn’t go to one of your snotty public schools is worthless.”

“That’s not true, and—”

Merlin overrode him. “It might surprise you, Arthur, but my instructors said I was a natural, that I had a gift for flying. Maybe I don’t have experience, but I _can_ fly, and I _will_ fly. If you try and stop me—”

“I am _not_ letting you—”

The door opened again, and Arthur fell silent, although he continued to glare at Merlin. A thin, older man stood there. Merlin straightened and gave him a salute.

“Paul Emmeris?” the man asked, and Merlin nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“Gordon Hill. A pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Emmeris. If you would just step into my office?” He glanced at Arthur. “Don’t you have things to do, Penderley?”

“Yes, sir.” Arthur gave Merlin a final, indecipherable look, and then stalked off down the hallway.

“I trust you’re settling in?” Hill said, gesturing for Merlin to take a seat. His uniform was immaculate, hair neatly parted, a sparse mustache on his upper lip. He looked like someone who did things by the book, and Merlin wasn’t surprised that he and Arthur were at odds.

“Yes, sir.” Merlin said. “I’m ready to go up tomorrow, sir.”

“Of course you are.” Hill studied him for a moment, and then turned his attention to the stack of papers on his desk. “Up at four, ready to scramble by five. Today was quiet, thanks to the weather, but they’re sure to be back at it tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Merlin hesitated, and then added, “Sir, I would prefer it if Arthur wasn’t my wingman.”

Hill glanced up again. “Penderley’s a good pilot, one of our best. Morris can pair up with Davies. No—I can’t think of anyone better to show you the ropes. He can get a bit carried away, but you’ll be safe with him. As safe as you can be.”

“Yes, sir.” Merlin managed to keep back his deep sigh until he was out in the hallway. Then he sighed, cursed, and kicked the wainscoting for good measure. His first day in combat, and he’d have to deal with having Arthur as his wingman on top of it. He doubted Arthur cared about his safety—he just wanted the opportunity to point out all of Merlin’s faults and prove what a superior pilot he was. Merlin could still hear the cold, impersonal tone in Arthur’s voice that December afternoon, when Merlin had finally worked up the courage to call. No, he wasn’t under any illusions that Arthur cared about _him_.

**

“So where are you from, Merlin?” Tristan asked, leaning back in his chair. Merlin had tagged along with Tristan, Lance, and Gawain, all of them piling into a Ford 8 and rattling off down the lane to a local hotel, the White Hart, which boasted the most well-stocked pub within a twenty mile radius. A few drinks sounded like just the thing to keep him from thinking about tomorrow.

The White Hart was filled with locals and servicemen from Kenley. Merlin had been introduced to the other members of the squadron—Pellinore, Bors, Kay, and Gaheris—who were clustered around a table and beckoned for Merlin and the others to join them when they arrived. There was no sign of Arthur.

“I’d been working in Enfield, but my mum lives near Leicester,” Merlin told Tristan, rubbing his thumb over the smooth rim of his glass.

“Bet you spent every weekend in London, then?”

Merlin shrugged. “A few.” He thought of the clink of glasses, the laughter and talk as he had hesitated on the broad staircase leading down into the Criterion. All the eyes turning to look at him, some lighting up in interest. Feeling horribly self-conscious, but fascinated, too, watching a boy in a beret leaning down to press a light kiss on the mouth of an older man.

He took a long drink, hoping Tristan wouldn’t ask him anything else.

“We’ll have to head up there one evening,” Tristan said. “I could ask Vivien if she’d like to come.”

“You do know Vivien is engaged, don’t you?” Lance asked. “We were both there when she was talking to her friend about it.”

“Vivien is the loveliest little Waaf,” Tristan confided to Merlin. “Stunning legs, perfectly gorgeous eyes—a few dates with me and she won’t even remember the name of this other sod.”

“Until he comes back, finds you kissing her, and knocks your bloody brains out,” Gawain said.

Tristan started protesting, and Merlin got up, heading over to the bar for another pint. He had the feeling he would be hearing about Tristan’s love life on a regular basis and really wasn’t in the mood for it tonight. Not when his stomach kept jumping, jittery and nervous. He kept picturing the silhouettes of the German fighters and bombers in his mind—the pugnacious nose of the Me 109, the pencil-thin tail of the Me 110, the flat fuselage ending in a bulbous cockpit on the Dornier 17s. Their flight instructors had drilled the images into their minds so that they wouldn’t attack their own forces by mistake, but it had happened to other British pilots, and Merlin was afraid it might happen to him as well.

As he wove his way through the tables, he spotted a piano in a corner. It had been a few weeks since he had last played, squeezing into the back of Will’s music shop, and it would be just the thing to distract him, ease his nerves a little. There was a wireless on in the background, but it was news, so surely no one would mind if he played a few songs.

Something easy to start out with, he decided, running his fingers over the keys. One he’d heard the other lads in his Training Squadron singing the other week. He started picking it out, stumbling over some of the notes, but finally settling into it.

“That’s it, Merlin!” Gawain called out. “Let’s have the words now.”

Merlin glanced up. “Sure you want me to inflict my singing on you?”

“I’ll sing it then,” Gawain said, coming over.

“Cover your ears, lads!” Tristan shouted.

Gawain ignored him and leaned against the piano. “Start at the top.”

Merlin started again, adding a few chords. Gawain began in a loud, slightly off-key voice:

  
“This war’s an awful nuisance, and it’s all one fellow’s fault,  
And now he’s got it started, it’s too late to call a halt.  
We’ve so much to put up with that we call him awful names,  
For everything that happens, he’s the man the public blames.”

Tristan and Lance joined in, singing loudly:

“We blame him for the sandbags that keep tripping up our feet,  
For imitation coppers in tin hats on every beat.  
Our air raid warden’s very blonde and simply too, too sweet!  
So it’s just too bad for nasty Uncle Adolf,  
He’s in for it now, all right.”

Feeling more confident, Merlin picked up the tempo, nodding for Gawain to continue.

“A friend said, ‘I’ve an air raid shelter, sandbags by the score,  
I’ve put some fairy lights around it—Can you guess what for?  
They’ll see the lights and bomb it while we’re playing darts next door.  
So, it’s just too bad for nasty Uncle Adolf,  
He’s in for it now, all right.”

Merlin came in on the next verse, and Gawain gestured for more patrons to start singing as well.

“It really is amazing how we hate that fellow’s name,  
For everything that worries us, he has to take the blame.  
We’re always out of petrol, and we keep our headlights dim,  
So if the girl gets out and walks we go on blaming him.  
We blame him for the lies that Goebbels tells of you and me,  
Announcements and news bulletins galore on BBC,  
And records of some chamber music, opus 93,  
So it’s just too bad for nasty Uncle Adolf,  
He’s in for it now, all right.

Since Goering started slimming he looks different on parade,  
The tucks from all his uniforms rigged out the boys’ brigade.  
And now there isn’t room for all his medals, I’m afraid,  
So it’s just too bad for nasty Uncle Adolf,  
He’s in for it now, all right!”

Merlin finished with a playful flourish over the keys, and there was much laughter and clapping.

“How about something else, Merlin?” Lance asked. He and Tristan had joined them at the piano. “What else do you know?”

“Well, there’s this one,” Merlin said. “Just learned it before I joined the Reserve.” He started the melody, humming a little, finding the right pitch. He wasn’t the best singer, but he could hold a tune.

“Everybody do the blackout stroll,  
Roundabout the town we’ll all patrol.  
We can live as happily as old King Cole,  
Once we get together in the blackout stroll.

What’s the good of walking with a frown?  
Laugh away your worries like a clown.  
Very, very merrily we’ll go to town,  
Happy and contented as the lights go down.

There’s no more cuddling in the moonlight.  
There’s no more pitching in the park.  
But why let’s worry over moonlight  
When we’re strolling in the dark?”

Gawain, Lance, and, Tristan all chimed in with, “it’s lovely.”

[](http://s1181.photobucket.com/user/riventhorn/media/koa___piano_by_amphigoury-d31sbll_zps4c791920.jpg.html)

Merlin continued,

“Everybody do the blackout stroll,  
Laugh and drive your cares right up the pole.  
Whisper ‘see you later’ to your baby doe.  
Now we change our partners in the blackout stroll.”

He started the instrumental section, and Tristan seized Lance, capering in a circle as people pushed back their chairs to give them room. “From the top, lads!” Merlin shouted and started the song again, singing a line, then letting the other three sing the next, back and forth until they reached the end, to more applause.

He began another song right away, one he had played so often in the last few months. Slower, a little more somber.

[ “Black cats creep across my path](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-UrOaOLqE4%E2%80%9D)  
Until I’m almost mad.  
I must have roused the devil’s wrath  
'cause all my luck is bad.

I make a date for golf—and you can bet your life it rains.  
I try to give a party—but the guy upstairs complains.  
I guess I'll go through life just catching colds and missing trains;  
Everything happens to me.

I never miss a thing—I've had the measles and the mumps.  
And every time I play an ace my partner always trumps.  
I guess I'm just a fool who never looks before he jumps;  
Everything happens to me.”

The door opened, and Merlin glanced up. It was Arthur, shrugging out of a damp jacket, running a hand through his hair. Merlin quickly looked back down at the piano, trying to keep his voice steady.

“At first my heart thought you could break this jinx for me.  
That love would turn the trick to end despair.  
But now, I just can't fool this head that thinks for me.  
So I've mortgaged all my castles in the air.

I’ve telegraphed and phoned, sent an Air Mail Special, too;  
Your answer was goodbye—there was even postage due.  
I fell in love just once, and then it had to be with you;  
Everything happens to me.

I've never drawn a sweepstake, or a bank night at a show.  
I thought perhaps this time I'd won, but Lady Luck said no.  
And though it breaks my heart, I'm not surprised to see you go;  
Everything happens to me.  
Everything happens to me.”

He finished the song, letting his fingers rest on the keys for a moment. Gawain was urging him to go on, play another tune, asking if he knew “There’ll Always Be An England.” Merlin shook his head, not wanting to play anymore, and finally raised his head. His eyes settled on Arthur immediately, sitting at the bar, slowly sipping a shot of whisky. He was watching Merlin.

Merlin stood up, promising that he would play again another night, and made his way over to Arthur. He started to order a whisky for himself, but Arthur shook his head.

“I’m not having you messing about tomorrow with a hangover. Not your first day.”

Merlin scowled, but didn’t protest.

“Still playing, then?”

“Yes.” Merlin studied the rows of bottles behind the bar, the different colors of glass and fancy labels. “When I get the chance.”

Arthur finished off the whisky, stood up. “Come on. Round up the others and let’s get back. The clouds are already clearing—it’ll be an early morning.”

**

_July, 1929_

A huge portrait of a man, grey-haired, unsmiling, and dressed in an army uniform confronted Merlin when he stepped hesitantly into the entrance hall of the Penderley manor.

“Who’s that?” he asked Arthur.

“My grandfather,” Arthur replied, glancing at the portrait. “Come, Bristol!” Bristol was peering hopefully up a tree at a squirrel. “Come!” Arthur repeated, and Bristol reluctantly abandoned his post.

“Arthur, dear, is that you?” a woman’s voice called, and a moment later she bustled in, wiping her hands on an apron. “Arthur, I’ve told you to keep that dog with his muddy paws outside!”

“He’ll get lonely,” Arthur protested, and the woman shook her head, sighing.

“And who’s this?” she asked, catching sight of Merlin.

“This is Merlin,” Arthur replied.

“I hope you’re not planning on casting any spells on me,” the woman said, chuckling.

“Mrs. Archer is the housekeeper,” Arthur told Merlin. “She’s looking after me while father is away.”

“That’s correct, and what did I tell you about going outdoors without your hat?” Mrs. Archer demanded. “You’ll get sunburned.”

“I can’t wear my crown if I wear the hat,” Arthur protested, holding up a rather battered cardboard crown. Merlin’s mother had let them cut up an old box to make it.

Mrs. Archer sighed again. “Well take your friend up to your room, then, and I’ll bring you some lemonade.”

“Where’s your father?” Merlin asked as he followed Arthur down the hall and then up a wide, curving staircase.

“He’s working.” Arthur fell silent, leading Merlin down yet another corridor. Merlin couldn’t imagine actually living in a house this big. It was so quiet, too. He thought of what it must be like at night and shivered. Perhaps there really were ghosts.

They passed an open door, and Merlin glanced inside. The room was lined with bookshelves, and a piano stood by the window, bathed in the afternoon sunshine. “Can I play your piano?” Merlin asked, stopping.

“It’s not my piano,” Arthur said. “And you can’t play, anyway.”

“I can, too,” Merlin retorted, pushing the door open all the way and going over to the window. “My mum taught me.”

“That’s my mother’s piano,” Arthur said while Merlin clambered onto the bench. “I heard Mrs. Archer telling her sister that it was the only thing of my mother’s left in the house. She died,” Arthur went on, lifting his chin, his voice a little too loud. “Something went wrong when I was born, and she died.” He glared at Merlin, as though expecting him to laugh.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said quietly. He thought again of the rumors that the manor was haunted. “Did she turn into a ghost?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Arthur sounded angry. “There are no such things.” He frowned. “Well go on and play something, if you can.”

He could only play one song—“The Big Ship Sails on the Ally-Ally-Oh,” and it took him a minute to remember it. He kept hitting wrong notes.

“You aren’t very good,” Arthur said.

“Well your house isn’t very special,” Merlin retorted crossly. “No ghosts or anything.”

He spent the next afternoon practicing the song over and over on the piano at home, with its scratched wood and the one key that only let out an unhappy groan when you pressed it, until he had the song memorized, and then started pestering his mum to teach him more.

**  
 _July 29, 1940. 0600 hours. Day 13._

It was too bloody early to be awake. Merlin pulled the collar of his jacket up around his ears and took out his pack of Player’s cigarettes, lighting one. He leaned back against the wall of the ready room, taking a long drag and squinting against the sun that was just coming up over the horizon. Tom, his fitter, was just finishing loading the ammo into his Spitfire. A surge of adrenaline burned through his limbs, and he took another drag, forced his other hand to stay relaxed at his side and not clutch at his jacket. It was a nice one, too—an Irvin, the smell of new leather still pungent, the sheepskin soft and clean. His mother had sent it to him, and he had rung her up to thank her.

“It’s too much, mum,” he had said.

“Don’t you worry about that,” she had replied. “You need to stay warm. How will you be able to concentrate on your flying if you’re freezing to death?”

So he had kept it, but he made sure to slip some extra money into his next letter home.

“Managing to keep your breakfast down?” Arthur asked, coming round the corner.

“Yes,” he muttered. There wasn’t much to keep down—he had only managed one piece of toast and a bit of tea.

“Your designation is Green Two,” Arthur said. “I’m Green One, Tristan is Three, and Lance is Four. B Flight will be going up with us—that’s Hill’s.” He ground the butt of his cigarette under his heel. “Don’t pay any attention to Hill. Just follow my lead.”

“He’s the Squadron Leader,” Merlin protested. “I have to follow orders. Or is this some sneaky plan of yours to get me grounded?”

“I don’t mess about up there,” Arthur replied in a flat voice. “You better not, either.” He disappeared inside, and Merlin slumped back against the wall.

An hour dragged by. He tried sitting down with a paper, but couldn’t stand it, and resorted to walking back and forth along the field.

The shrill ringing of the ops phone cut through the air, and his heart leapt. He struggled into his Mae West as the other pilots hurried onto the field. Hill came out the door. “Up we go, chaps,” he said, striding towards his Spitfire.

“Get moving, Merlin,” Arthur growled, giving him a shove.

He climbed into the cockpit, started running through the pre-flight check. Oxygen and R/T connected to his helmet. Petrol full. Tail trimming wheels neutral. Airscrew fine pitch. He started the engine, and it roared to life while Arthur’s voice crackled over the R/T.

“Our orders are to patrol over the Straits of Dover. Vector 80, Angels 10.”

“Right ho.” Tristan, sounding cheerful.

“You get that Green Two?”

Merlin pulled the receiver, coupled with the oxygen mask, in front of his mouth. “Yes, sir,” he replied tersely. He dropped the mask and muttered, “I’m not deaf.”

The chocks were pulled away, and he eased the throttle forward, taxiing into position. He was behind Arthur, and he could just imagine the derisive sneer Arthur would give him if he botched his take-off. Taking a deep breath, Merlin settled into the seat, got a good grip on the stick, felt the plane around him. As he moved forward, picking up speed, hearing the responsive shudder in the engine, the nervousness slipped away, replaced by a familiar excitement. He could never get tired of this—the thrill of taking off and hurtling into the sky.

Arthur lifted into the air, immediately pulling up his wheels and giving his wings a little tilt back and forth. Merlin’s Spitfire bounded after him, and then he was climbing up, cresting the treetops, the land below unfolding in front of him.

“Pull up a bit, Green Two,” Arthur ordered.

Merlin eased into position, hanging a little to the right and behind Arthur, Tristan and Lance to their left. The four planes in B Flight flew ahead of them.

They skimmed along, fields, roads, and houses passing by beneath their wings. And then the sudden break where land met sea, and they were out over the Channel. They had reached altitude, and Merlin fastened on his oxygen mask. His breathing echoed in his ears, audible even over the hammering drone of the engine.

“Keep your eyes open,” Arthur said. “Let’s start climbing.”

“Negative, Green One,” Hill’s voice broke in. “Control said Angels 10.”

“They’ll be above us, Leader,” Arthur replied, his voice tight. “We need to gain altitude.”

“Stay in formation Green One.”

Merlin could practically feel Arthur’s fury melting over the R/T, but he stayed in position.

“There they are,” Lance announced suddenly. “Looks like two groups of Dornier 17s. They’re hitting that nine ship convoy down below.”

And this was it. Merlin took a steadying breath, catching sight of the bombers.

“Tally Ho, lads!” Hill called, and they started curving down, falling away one by one like a row of dominoes. Merlin fixed one of the bombers in his sights, fingers hovering over the firing button.

“Bandits, one o’clock!” Arthur’s voice snapped out suddenly.

Merlin craned his neck, trying to see.

“Bloody hell there’s a lot of them!” Gawain cried.

Me 109s—probably thirty, but it seemed like a hundred. They came hurtling down, and he could see the tracer, little shining lights curving through the air at him—

“Break, Green Two!” Arthur yelled, and Merlin jolted his stick, throwing the Spitfire into a sharp turn. The Messerschmitt howled through the air where he had been, and Merlin yanked harder, turning, turning, trying to fall in behind it. There it was—lining up in his sights. He squeezed the trigger, heard the shattering rumble of the guns, but the 109 dived and suddenly there were more around him, screaming past, the Iron Crosses on the wings a blur, tracer everywhere.

“You’ve picked up a tail, Green Two,” Arthur said, impossibly calm. “Try and shake him—I’ll be there in a minute.”

Merlin pulled the stick into another tight turn, but the 109 turned with him, tracking him like a hawk after a rabbit. “I haven’t got a minute, Green One,” Merlin gritted out, the force of the turn keeping him slammed into his seat.

More bursts of tracer—so close, and he coaxed out every bit of speed the Spitfire could give him. It wasn’t going to be enough, not enough, and then the 109 dropped, smoke spewing out, falling into a lazy spin. Merlin stared, watching it go down, plummeting into the ocean.

He pulled up, soaring ahead, heart pounding in his ears.

And just like that, the sky was empty. Not a plane in sight. Just an endless blue, studded with streaks of cloud. He hovered there for a second, listening to the pounding beat of his heart.

“Turn for home,” Hill ordered. “They’re heading back.”

Shaking out of his daze, Merlin nudged the Spitfire around and found the rest of the squadron pulling together. Down on the water, dark smoke billowed up from two of the ships. Bloody bastards, and he hadn’t even come close to hitting one.

He started shaking halfway back to the airfield, the adrenaline seeping away and leaving him numb, drained. Sweat had soaked completely through his shirt, and his hair felt damp under his helmet.

When he clambered out of his plane, his legs almost collapsed under him. He clutched the wing and found himself staring at a row of neat bullet holes in the fuselage. Bloody hell, but that had been close.

“Still alive, then?” Arthur’s voice drawled behind him.

“Yeah.” And he grinned because he was. He was _alive_. He pushed himself up and turned around. “I guess I have you to thank for that.”

“You’ll have plenty of opportunities to pay me back.” Arthur studied him for a moment. “It appears you _can_ actually fly. Now we just need to work on the hitting things part.”

Merlin frowned, started to reply, and then had to grab at the wing again. Arthur caught his arm.

“Come on. I have just the thing for you.”

He hauled Merlin into the ready room and rattled around, pulling out a shot-glass and a half-empty bottle of brandy. “Drink this and sit down.”

Merlin did and felt a little better, more grounded. Arthur lit a cigarette and then handed it to Merlin, lighting another of his own.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Arthur said, nodding out the window at where the mechanics were swarming over the planes, getting them ready to go up again. “I’ve had her a few weeks now, since I lost my first one. Half the propeller shot off, but she still got me back to a wheat field.” He chuckled. “The farmer practically took my head off with a rake when I stumbled into the barnyard. Thought I was a Jerry.”

The Spitfires were beautiful, with their clean silhouettes, like a swallow piercing the skies. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Fly, I mean.” Merlin kept his eyes on the planes. “Ever since that first time. You remember?”

“Yeah.”

Arthur’s voice sounded warm, happy, and when Merlin chanced a look at him, he appeared relaxed, a small smile tilting his mouth upwards.

“Arthur,” he ventured quietly. “Last winter—in London, I—”

“Keep your eyes open next time, Merlin,” Arthur cut across him, voice harsh, the smile disappearing. “I can’t spend all my time picking Messerschmitts of your back.” He walked over to the door and jerked on the handle.

“You won’t have to!” Merlin shouted after him. “I can take care of myself!”

Arthur didn’t respond, and Merlin slumped back in the chair, seething. Why did he keep doing this to himself? Why did he keep thinking that there was something more between him and Arthur? Every time he let his guard down, started hoping—Arthur shot him down. “You’re worse than the bloody Huns,” he muttered at the door.

He sat, brooding, until his stomach started to complain. What time was it anyway? It felt like a hundred years had passed since he climbed into the cockpit.

It turned out to be just after eleven, and they were serving lunch in the mess. He sat as far away from Arthur as possible, squeezing onto the end of a table with Tristan.

“You know, I think my batman might be a fifth columnist,” Tristan said, poking at his food.

“I think you have fifth column fever,” Merlin replied. “I doubt very much that your batman is a German spy.”

“Well he’s a quiet chap—won’t tell me hardly anything about himself.”

“Probably because he doesn’t want you to steal his girlfriend.”

“I wouldn’t!” Tristan exclaimed. “I’m keeping my eye on him, though, so don’t worry. Perhaps I’ll trail him this evening—see if he goes anywhere near the Spitfires.”

Merlin rolled his eyes.

“Just think of the accolades if I caught him!” Tristan continued. “My picture in the papers—every girl on base would know my name. Wonderful conversation starter, too. ‘Hello there, love. Would you like to hear about the time I caught a German spy?’” He grinned at the expression on Merlin’s face. “Witty conversation, Merlin, can help your cause immeasurably. I keep telling Gawain he needs to find something else to talk about beyond Spitfires and golf. You and I might be able to talk about airspeed and nine irons all day, I tell him, but that’s not what girls want to hear about.” He gave Merlin a considering look. “You have a girl back home, Merlin?”

“Uh, no,” Merlin said quickly. “I’m not too good around girls.”

“The uniform helps a lot. Wear those wings into a bar and pretty soon every girl in the place will be crowded around you.”

Merlin managed a smile. “I’ll have to try it out sometime.”

He went outside after lunch and tried to relax, flopping down in the sun on the grass. But the nerves crept up over him again, churning his stomach. It was almost a relief when the call came for the squadron to scramble. Adrenaline and the familiar routine of preparing for takeoff—tugging on his bright yellow Mae West, hoisting himself into the cockpit, checking the gauges—shoved the fear into the background.

Hill wasn’t along this time, and Arthur took them up to 20,000. His voice rolled over the R/T, “Another flight of Dorniers, and we’ve got bandits at five o’clock—Me 110s, I think. Pick your targets and keep your heads clear.” His Spitfire peeled away, diving down, and Merlin followed.

He flicked the guns on, peered into his electronic sight, zeroing in on one of the bombers. He squeezed off a shot, and the tracer flitted away, too far to the right.

“You won’t hit anything at that distance, Green Two,” Arthur snapped, and Merlin remembered what Lance had said—about how the six hundred and fifty yards they had learned in training was worthless, how you had to get in close.

The Messerschmitts had noticed them and were starting to angle upwards. Merlin let off a shot at one, and it shied away. He kept his focus on the bomber. Closer—the rear gunner was firing at him now, but the angle was bad. Closer—he was practically on top of the bastard, and he started firing, a long burst from the guns. There was a pause, and then the rear gun turret on the Dornier slanted sharply upwards. The gunner was dead, Merlin realized, as smoke started to leech out of the bomber’s underbelly. He flashed by and curved around for another pass. But the bomber was starting to dip down towards the water, and a few small figures detached themselves from the plane, parachutes opening like white blossoms.

Their descent mesmerized him, and he felt torn between remorse and elation, knowing that he had shot them down, that he had _wanted_ to shoot them down and tried his damndest to make it happen.

The wing of a 110 suddenly flashed by, and he recollected himself, turning swiftly. Another Spitfire roared past, pouncing on one of the 110s behind Merlin. The dogfight petered out, the Dorniers jettisoning their bombs and turning back, the Messerschmitts following.

And then Arthur was yelling, “Gawain—dammit, look out!”

Gawain had been pursuing one of the fleeing bombers, and a 110 had come at him from above. Tristan and Lance were there a second later, but it was too late. Horrified, Merlin watched as the entire front of Gawain’s Spitfire erupted into flames. Gawain was screaming, terrible shrieks of pain clearly audible over the R/T. It seemed to go on and on, but could only have been seconds, and then the Spitfire exploded, and there was nothing but smoke and debris drifting down towards the sea and silence.

**

Notes:  
*The opening quote is from a famous speech by Winston Churchill given after Dunkirk. The Wehrmacht (the German army) had driven the French and the British Expeditionary Force all the way back to the coast. The soldiers were trapped on the beaches, and Churchill praised the RAF for giving the navy the time to evacuate the British Expeditionary Force. He went on to emphasize the fact that the RAF could beat the Luftwaffe saying:

“When we consider how much greater would be our advantage in defending the air above this Island against an overseas attack, I must say that I find in these facts a sure basis upon which practical and reassuring thoughts may rest. I will pay my tribute to these young airmen. The great French Army was very largely, for the time being, cast back and disturbed by the onrush of a few thousand armored vehicles. May it not also be that the cause of civilization itself will be defended by the skill and devotion of a few thousand airmen? There never has been, I suppose, in all the world, in all the history of war, such an opportunity for youth. The Knights of the Round Table, the Crusaders, all fall back into the past—not only distant but prosaic; these young men, going forth every morn to guard their native land and all that we stand for, holding in their hands these instruments of colossal and shattering power, of whom it may be said that: ‘Every morn brought forth a noble chance. And every chance brought forth a noble knight,’ deserve our gratitude, as do all the brave men who, in so many ways and on so many occasions, are ready, to give life and all for their native land.”

*The Spitfire’s engine really was called a Merlin. The Spitfire was powered by a 1,030 hp Rolls-Royce Merlin III twelve cylinder liquid-cooled engine. Another random Merlin reference—when the Germans began bombing convoys in the English Channel, Colonel Johannes Fink, the commander of the campaign, used radar called “Freya” to monitor ship and aircraft movements.

*By July 20, the Luftwaffe could muster a formidable force of aircraft. They were divided into Luftflotte (Air Fleets) 2, 3, and 5. Luftflotte 2 and 3 possessed 656 Me 109s, 168 Me 110s, and 769 twin engine (Ju 88s, Heinkel 111s, and Dornier 17s) bombers. Luftflotte 5 contributed a further 95 bombers. Replacements for killed pilots were finishing training camps at the rate of 800 a month. The RAF, in contrast, had only 504 serviceable fighters and 1,069 pilots at the start of the battle.

*The Germans’ plan for the invasion of Britain was called Operation Seelöwe (Sea Lion). The opening phase was the _Kanalkampf_ when German bombers attacked British shipping in the Channel. The Luftwaffe hoped to force Fighter Command into expending its fighters, opening them up to later attacks on Britain itself. Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding, Commander in Chief of Fighter Command, understood that the most important point was to continue to be able to put fighters into the air. To that end, he was always very conservative in the forces he sent against the German bombers, always keeping some back to face the next attack.

*Besides Dowding, other influential British commanders in Fighter Command were Air Vice-Marshal Keith Park, commander of 11 Group, and Air Vice-Marshal Trafford Leigh-Mallory, commander of 12 Group.

*In May of 1940, Lord Beaverbrook was appointed Minister of Air Production and immediately began accelerating the production of new Spitfires and Hurricanes.

*Arthur’s dog, Bristol, is named after the “Bristol Bulldog,” a bi-plane that formed the majority of Britain’s fighter defense system from 1929-1936

*The White Hart was a popular pub among fighter pilots, but was located near Biggin Hill airfield, not Kenley. I’ve basically made up numbers for the various squadrons—although that squadron may have existed, I haven’t tried to match its location or actual record of engagement to the story.

* Although Ford was an American automobile manufacturer, they produced cars for Europe as well. The Ford Model Y, also called a Ford 8 in Britain, was the first model designed for non-U.S. markets. According to Wikipedia: Even by the standards of the time, the UK built Ford 8, like its major competitor the Austin 7, was found noteworthy for its "almost unbelievable lack of brakes.”

*Waaf=Women’s Auxiliary Air Force

*The “Reserve” was the RAFVR, the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve

*The Mae West was the nickname the pilots gave to their lifejacket

*Angels=Altitude


	2. Chapter 2

_June, 1930_

Merlin had been cycling round to the Penderley Manor every day since the school holidays had started. He told himself that he was just interested in watching the caretaker, Mr. Jarvis, repairing the roof. It was actually quite fascinating to watch, as Mr. Jarvis clambered nimbly over the tiles, sometimes leaning out dangerously over the eaves. Merlin always expected him to tumble off, but Mr. Jarvis always managed to stay balanced. He had even gone over and offered to help, but Mr. Jarvis had waved him away, telling him he’d have Merlin’s hide if he even _thought_ about climbing the ladder.

“I recognize you—hanging about with young Master Arthur last summer, weren’t you?” Mr. Jarvis had fixed him with a beady eye. “You’re the one who destroyed my wheelbarrow.”

Merlin had fled the scene hastily. The wheelbarrow had met its demise on an unfortunate afternoon the summer before, when Arthur had wanted to fight a gryphon. As gryphons were hard to come by, they had finally erected a lopsided apparition composed of rusted tin cans, sticks, and some of Mrs. Archer’s best tablecloths, then lifted it into the bed of the wheelbarrow. Merlin was supposed to push the barrow as hard as he could, while Arthur waited with a lance (a long pole with a spade tied to the end), ready to slay the gryphon. Merlin had started off, but the barrow was heavy and had escaped his control while going downhill. It had shot past a startled Arthur and finally slammed into a large boulder.

So Merlin watched Mr. Jarvis from a safe distance and listened for the sound of a car coming up the drive or Bristol’s shrill barks.

Arthur finally arrived a week later, piling out of a long Rolls Royce along with many suitcases and trunks and Bristol, who immediately dashed up to Merlin. Merlin ruffled his ears, feeling suddenly uncertain. Perhaps Arthur didn’t want to be friends anymore.

But when Arthur saw him, he just grinned. “Merlin! Wait till you see what I’ve got!” He reached back into the car and emerged holding a wooden shield. It was painted red, with yellow squares checkerboarding across it. “Isn’t it fantastic? Father gave it to me for Christmas.” He handed it to Merlin. “You can carry it for me when we go questing.”

Merlin scowled. “I’m not a squire. I’m a sorcerer.”

“Well I can’t carry it—I’m the king!” Arthur retorted, and Merlin shoved him, and Arthur shoved him back, and then shouted, “Race you to the top!”

“Hey!” Merlin protested, staggering, and then setting off after Arthur. They tore up the stairs and into the house, ignoring Mrs. Archer’s shrieks telling them to slow down, and pelted through the rooms, and up more stairs, until they emerged in the attic. In truth it was a rather boring attic—no maps of hidden treasure or intriguing artifacts covered in dust. Just a few old chairs and a broken rocking horse, listing drunkenly to one side. But it was dark and secret and served very well as either a cave where one could steal gold from trolls or a warm place to listen to rain drumming on the roof and eat Mrs. Archer’s chocolate biscuits on a stormy afternoon.

Arthur plopped down in a corner, laughing triumphantly. “Beat you!”

“It wasn’t a fair start,” Merlin muttered, settling next to him.

Arthur just laughed some more. “Guess what I saw when we were driving up?” He didn’t wait for Merlin to answer, just rushed on, words spilling out excitedly. “A flying circus! They were setting up in the fields outside the village. And not just any old one—it was Cobham’s; I saw the poster.”

“How many planes were there?”

“At least fourteen. Gipsy Moths and Avro Avians mostly. They’re going to put on a show tomorrow.” Arthur glanced at Merlin. “We should go watch.”

Merlin nodded enthusiastically, but then remembered—“My mum is working tomorrow. She won’t be able to take me.”

“I’ll ask Mrs. Archer,” Arthur said. “She can take both of us.”

Mrs. Archer did take both of them, but only after a long lecture on how they shouldn’t stuff themselves with candy, and she didn’t want them anywhere near the planes by themselves, and they had better behave or they’d come straight back. They suffered through it, then tugged her to the car while she was still trying to pin her hat in place.

There was candyfloss and ice cream, sold from colorful stands. There were little models of aeroplanes, too, each painted in bright colours. They bought some candyfloss and then gathered with the rest of the crowd at the edge of a field, craning their necks upwards while the pilots twisted their aircraft into a series of reckless rolls and flips, buzzing over their heads, and finally landing smoothly on the grass.

“I feel dizzy just from watching!” Mrs. Archer exclaimed, fanning her face.

Arthur started off towards one of the planes, but Mrs. Archer grabbed him by the collar. “No you don’t, young man. I’m not letting you anywhere near that dangerous machine.”

“But—” Arthur began, and she quelled him with a firm glare.

The pilot of an Avro Aviator had heard them, and he walked over. “I assure you, it’s not dangerous at all,” he said, giving Mrs. Archer a rakish grin. “I can guarantee that this plane is the safest model out there.”

Mrs. Archer continued to look skeptical.

The pilot’s helmet was still on, and he wore a leather jacket. Merlin hung back, nervous and slightly awestruck, but Arthur seized the chance to wriggle away from Mrs. Archer. He hurried over to the plane and placed a reverent hand on the fuselage.

“No harm in going for a little ride,” the pilot continued. “Just half a crown to go up.”

“Well…” Mrs. Archer hesitated, looking at Arthur’s pleading face.

“Why, soon enough aeroplanes will be more common than cars,” the pilot said, winking at Merlin. “We’ll all be riding in them.”

“You won’t catch me larking about like a bird,” Mrs. Archer said, but she handed the pilot the money.

Arthur’s face lit up, and he clambered up the side of the plane. Merlin watched, horribly envious, as the pilot cranked the propeller. Mrs. Archer grabbed Merlin by the arm and dragged him back to what she considered a safe vantage point. The pilot turned the plane around and then they were off, bumping over the ground before lifting off and soaring upwards. The pilot didn’t do any fancy tricks, just circled a few times, and then brought it back in to land. But when Arthur slid to the ground, his eyes were shining, his hair windblown and sticking up all over his head.

“How about you?” the pilot asked Merlin.

Merlin swallowed. He had never wanted anything more in his life then to go flying in that beautiful plane. But he didn’t have any more money—he had spent it on the candyfloss earlier. Trying to hide his disappointment, he shook his head. “No thank you.”

Arthur was looking at him. He put his hand on Mrs. Archer’s arm. “Can’t Merlin go, too?”

“I’m not sure Mrs. Emmeris would want him up in that contraption,” Mrs. Archer said doubtfully.

“Course she would,” Arthur replied. “She told Merlin so this morning. Didn’t she, Merlin?”

“Um, yes,” Merlin said quickly.

“You boys,” Mrs. Archer sighed, taking out her purse.

Merlin grinned, a jolt of excitement making his fingers tremble as he took the money and handed it to the pilot. He carefully climbed up, paying attention to every detail—the sun-warmed metal, the soft leather of the seat, the smell of petrol. When the pilot started flicking levers, Merlin’s curiosity burst forth. “What’s that? What do those do?”

“This gauge shows the fuel level. This one is speed and altitude,” the pilot explained, pointing them out. “Throttle’s here of course, and you’ve got the rudders for turning. Pretty simple, really.” He looked at Merlin and smiled. “You thinking of becoming a pilot?”

“Yes,” Merlin said firmly. He had thought of it before, when he caught sight of aeroplanes lazily circling overhead, but he had considered other things, too—an explorer, the captain of a ship, opening his own shop so he could have all the ginger beer he wanted. But now—now he knew nothing else could ever compare with this. His heart was thudding in his throat as they began moving forward—the plane seemed to be going much faster than it had looked when he was standing on the ground. His stomach dropped when they lifted off, and he clutched his seat, but then they were floating in the air, weightless, every sound fading away until it was just the rumble of the engine and the rush of the wind. He looked down at the familiar fields and houses, but they seemed different from up here—so small, part of such a large world that stretched on into the distance.

He could see Arthur watching them, and he waved. Arthur waved back. The pilot circled the field, going into a wide turn that tipped the sky and the land together. _This must be what doing magic would feel like_ , Merlin thought to himself. This feeling of freedom under the expansive sky, as though the rules and laws of the world below had no hold on your spirit.

“It was absolutely grand, wasn’t it?” Arthur said, when Merlin’s feet touched the ground again.

“I’m going to be a pilot,” Merlin told him.

“Me, too,” Arthur replied, both of them still staring at the plane.

They reluctantly followed Mrs. Archer back to the car, and when Merlin went home that evening, his bicycle seemed dull and heavy, keeping him pinned to the ground when he wanted to be up in the sky, skimming over the treetops.

**

_July, 1930_

“I think we should have aeroplanes in Camelot,” Arthur announced one afternoon. They were sprawled in the shade of a tree after running about all morning, searching for the Holy Grail. Merlin had grudgingly played the role of a Black Knight, which he never liked because Arthur always ended up poking him hard in the ribs with his wooden sword, even after promising that he wouldn’t. In retaliation, Merlin had turned himself into a bird, which meant that he could annoy Arthur by not responding to any of his commands, as birds couldn’t talk or carry heavy shields.

“You’re a rubbish sorcerer,” Arthur had muttered.

“I am not. Not every sorcerer can turn themselves into a falcon. This way I can fly ahead and warn you of any danger.”

“Well, fly off, then,” Arthur had said, waving his hand angrily, but Merlin had stayed. They had finally settled under an oak tree, Bristol panting next to them.

“You can’t have aeroplanes in Camelot,” Merlin said, sleepily watching the leaves rustling over their heads.

“Why not? We can use them to fight dragons.”

“I suppose.” Merlin yawned. “I can enchant them so that they’re protected from dragon fire.”

A pause, and then Arthur said diffidently, “It’s my birthday tomorrow.”

“Are you going down to London?” Merlin remembered that the year before, Arthur had gone to London on his birthday to visit his father.

“No.” A pause. “Father’s in France. He wrote, saying he can’t come back.”

Merlin rolled onto his side to look at Arthur, who was poking at the ground with a stick. He looked unhappy and sad, which Merlin didn’t understand. He always loved his birthday—cake and presents and an extra penny for the cinema.

“I was born in the manor,” Arthur said. “Tomorrow’s the day that my mother…” he trailed off.

That his mother had died. “You can come have supper with us, if you want,” Merlin offered, and Arthur relaxed a little.

“Of course Arthur can come over,” his mother said when Merlin told her, and she immediately started planning a cake.

Merlin felt he should have something to give Arthur. But Arthur already had so many lovely toys and clothes and books. “Do you think Arthur will mind if I don’t give him a present?” Merlin asked his mum.

She smiled and ruffled his hair. “Let me get you some money—you can buy him some new comics. I’m sure he’d like that.”

Merlin shook his head. “No. He already has all those.” He sighed, but then was struck with an idea. Hurrying over to the box where his mother kept old clothes to be used for scraps and rags, he sifted through them until he found the silk dressing gown—red silk decorated with flowers and Chinese symbols. His mother had worn it for a long time—Merlin had a vague idea that his father might have given it to her—but it had finally gotten too threadbare. But the buttons were still there—wonderful buttons painted a shiny gold, each with a small red dragon curling across it.

Carefully, Merlin snipped one off. Then he went to his room and pulled out the small wooden chest he kept under his bed. He kept all his treasures in it—a smooth white shell he had found on a visit to the seaside, an old sugar spoon he had uncovered in a rubbish heap, tarnished and dented, but with a small castle decorating the handle. There was also a watch, dangling on a thin chain that had belonged to his father. Merlin unclasped the chain and slid the watch off, then slipped the button on. Now all he needed to do was cast the proper spell.

The middle of the afternoon somehow didn’t seem at all appropriate for casting powerful enchantments, so Merlin waited until the sky was fading to dark blue and the sun was gilding the roof tops before going out into the woods. He walked to the bank of the stream that wandered through the village, under the hills, and off to the sea. Kneeling on the soft moss, he took out the button, although medallion sounded much nicer, and dipped it into the water. Then he held it up so that sunlight touched it, glinting off the red and gold, sparkling in the water that dripped onto the moss. Solemnly, he spoke the spell.

Not a real spell, of course, just a bunch of words that he had made up, but he uttered them with the intent of protection. No one and nothing would harm Arthur while he wore the medallion. He closed his hand around it, holding it tightly until the warmth from his body bled into the metal, and he could feel the raised dragon digging into his skin.

It seemed much more ordinary the next day, when he was sitting with his mother and Arthur at the table, eating supper. He hesitated, uncertain, afraid that Arthur would laugh. After eating the cake and singing happy birthday, which made Arthur blush, he and Arthur went up to his room. Merlin took out his tin soldiers and a small plastic knight, but Arthur flopped onto the bed and after a moment, Merlin joined him, poking Arthur until he rolled over to make room.

He felt in his pocket and slowly drew out the medallion. “I made this for you,” he said, holding it out. “I put a very powerful spell on it—a spell of protection. So you’ll be safe when you ride into battle.”

Arthur took it, cupping it carefully in his hand. He smiled, one of the open, delighted smiles that always made Merlin smile back. “Thank you.” He slipped the chain over his head. “Maybe you aren’t such a rubbish sorcerer, after all.”

Merlin gave him an indignant punch on his shoulder, and Arthur laughed. His fingers went back to the medallion, holding it tightly. “Do you think there are such things as ghosts?” Arthur asked quietly, keeping his eyes on the ceiling.

“No,” Merlin replied. He paused and added, “You can spend the night if you want.”

Arthur nodded silently.

The next summer, Arthur didn’t return. Every day Merlin went to the manor, looking for him, and finally knocked on the door and asked Mrs. Archer where he was.

“Oh, he’s spending the summer in France, love, with some relatives,” she replied.

Merlin wandered around the quiet woods for a few days, but he couldn’t find any dragons or Black Knights. Instead, he began bicycling out to an RAF station to watch the Hawker Furies taking off and landing. It was a long way and took him most of the day. He brought along a sandwich, crushed in his pocket, and sat on the hill, imagining that he was down there, strapping on a helmet and climbing into the cockpit of his own aeroplane.

**

_August 4, 1940. 2100 hours. Day 19._

Merlin drummed his finger on the smooth wood of the bar for emphasis. “It comes down to speed. I can out-climb and out-dive your precious Hurricane, and I can out-turn a Messerschmitt.”

The pilot sitting next to him—David, one of twelve pilots in No. 85 Squadron who were spending the night at Kenley before going on to a new posting at Tangmere—shook his head emphatically. “Being quick just lets you run away faster. Now, we’ve each got eight Brownings, but I can make a tighter turn, come up on those bastards and use the guns to real effect. Besides, your guns are positioned all wonky—messes up your aim. I always hit what I’m shooting at.”

“If you ever catch up to the target,” Merlin replied, grinning. “What’s your top speed? 320? 330 miles per hour? I can coax my lady up to 362.”

“Like I say, just running away faster.”

“What the hell are you implying?” an angry voice interjected, and Merlin looked up to see Tristan staring at them. The murmur of conversation among the other patrons of the White Hart faded away as they turned, wondering if a fight was about to break out. It wasn’t unusual, what with everyone’s nerves frayed to the breaking point, although usually it was just friendly roughhousing.

“He wasn’t implying anything,” Merlin said quickly. “We were just joking around.”

“It sounded,” Tristan went on, ignoring Merlin, “like he was calling us cowards.” He started to move forward, raising his fist. “I’ll show you just how brave we are, you—”

Arthur appeared, grabbing Tristan and holding him back. “Take it easy.” Tristan tried to shrug him off, but Arthur just tightened his grip and started pulling Tristan away. “Come on, let’s go outside, get you cooled off.”

“Sorry about that,” Merlin said to David in a low voice. “We lost one of our squadron a few days ago. Tristan’s taking it hard; they had been friends for a long time.”

“I understand.” David sighed. “I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

The conversation faltered after that, and Merlin went over to the piano, played a few bars of “The Last Time I Saw Paris.” When he looked up, Arthur had taken a seat at the closest table and was leaning back in the chair, watching him.

“You know they say pianists make some of the best fighter pilots,” Merlin said. “We have a light, sensitive touch.”

“Is that so? I suppose the girls like that.”

Merlin gave him a quick glance, but Arthur’s face was impassive. “I wouldn’t really know about that.”

“No?”

He forced a laugh. “Not much chance for socializing around here.”

“True.” Arthur stood up, and then paused. “We’ll have to go on a sortie to London one night. We could all use a change of scene.”

Merlin nodded, agreeing, and tried not to hear more in Arthur’s words than he should.

**  
 _July 1934_

The chemist’s door jingled as Merlin opened it, ready to hurry out into the late afternoon sunshine.

“I expect you here at eight o’clock tomorrow, Merlin!” Gaius called after him. “Try not to be late.”

“Right. Sorry again, about today and last week and…” Merlin trailed off, sighing. He always seemed to be running behind in the mornings. Part of it was due to the fact that he didn’t want to be working there, delivering parcels and sweeping the shop. Not that Gaius wasn’t nice or that Merlin didn’t appreciate the job, but…well, there were other things he would rather be doing.

It didn’t take long for him to walk home—only ten minutes and he was turning into their street. At first he didn’t notice the two boys coming towards him, but then he focused on them and stumbled to a halt because one of them was Arthur. It had been four years since Merlin had seen him—four summers that Arthur had spent abroad. Arthur was taller, walking with an easy grace that Merlin envied. Merlin was taller, too, but still skinny and awkward. The boy next to Arthur looked a little older. A scornful smirk curled his lip.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin asked, ignoring the other boy in favor of concentrating on Arthur.

Arthur shrugged. He wasn’t smiling either. “Father wanted to drop by the manor, make sure everything was all right. We’re only here for the day.” He gestured at the other boy. “This is Charles. He’s in the year above me at school.”

“I can see why you didn’t want to spend summers here,” Charles commented, glancing about. “Boring little place, isn’t it?”

Merlin felt a sting of hurt that intensified when Arthur didn’t refute Charles’s words. Instead, Arthur just stood there, staring at him.

Charles turned to look at Merlin’s house with its peeling paint and shabby curtains. He raised an eyebrow. “What was your name again?”

“Paul,” Merlin said curtly.

“Oh.” Charles gave his house and then Merlin a dismissive glance. “Come on, Arthur, let’s go back.”

Arthur paused, but finally just inclined his head and said, “Bye,” before heading after Charles.

Merlin watched them go, trying to ignore the bite of anger and disappointment that tightened his chest. He had missed Arthur—had imagined that the next time they saw each other, Arthur would smile and pull him into a rough hug. Merlin suddenly felt stupid for spending every summer wishing Arthur would come back. Arthur had probably been on some beach in France, laughing with his friends about the poor little country boy he’d been forced to spend time with. Jerking open the gate, Merlin stepped through and slammed it behind him.

His mother could tell something was wrong, but he didn’t want to talk about it, evading her questions with shrugs. He wasn’t going to waste another word, another thought on Arthur. After supper, he went outside and slumped down on the front steps. Maybe next year he’d try and go to Manchester or London, see if he couldn’t find a better job. He scuffed his shoe along the side of the step, wishing he was somewhere else, had something more exciting to do tomorrow than deliver medicines. The sound of the gate opening drew his attention, and he looked up to see Arthur standing there, alone this time.

“What do you want now?” Merlin demanded, giving Arthur a hostile glare.

Arthur slowly walked over. Merlin didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him, but Arthur sat anyway, his shoulder and leg warm and solid where they touched Merlin’s.

Merlin’s resolve not to speak to Arthur lasted all of two minutes. “Not off in France this year?” he said grudgingly.

“No. It was fun, though. I was staying with my uncle, and he owns a Gipsy Moth. He wouldn’t let me fly it, but he let me taxi it down the runway once.” Merlin could hear the smile in Arthur’s voice, and he couldn’t hold on to the anger, feeling it slip away past the warm relief that perhaps he hadn’t misjudged Arthur, that perhaps they were still friends. “I’ve already convinced father to let me join the University Air Squadron at Cambridge when I start,” Arthur added.

The anger flared up again, and Merlin couldn’t reply, not past the disappointment and envy that choked his throat.

Arthur nudged his shoulder. “Can I still call you Merlin?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah.” Merlin sighed. “Most everyone does.” It wasn’t Arthur’s fault that his family was rich, that he would have the chance to fly a plane when Merlin might never be able to climb into a cockpit again.

Arthur laughed and put his hand on Merlin’s neck, giving him a fond shake. “What about you? What have you been up to?”

He shrugged. “Not much. I’m not in school anymore—started working for Gaius.”

“Are you thinking of joining the RAF?”

He’d thought of nothing else for the past months. But— “I didn’t take any exams. The RAF only accepts candidates with a good academic record. I’d probably never be able to pass the board.”

“What about a technical school?”

“I don’t want to be mucking around with gears and bolts. I want to fly the bloody things!” He looked away, not wanting Arthur to see how much it mattered to him.

A moment passed, and then Arthur put his hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Maybe it’s for the best,” he said lightly, “I can’t imagine the disaster you would be trying to fly an aeroplane.” But his fingers squeezed sympathetically.

Merlin managed a laugh. “I’d be better than you at any rate.”

“In your dreams, Merlin.”

They sat silently for a few more minutes, and then Arthur stood up. “Well, I have to be getting back. Father will probably be ready to leave soon.” He hesitated. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

“Right. See you around.”

Merlin watched as Arthur walked away. He doubted he would see Arthur again. They were headed into two different worlds. But at least Arthur had come back and talked to him, like he used to do.

That night, when Merlin was lying in bed, restless, he tried to think of the pin-up posters that the boys at school used to pass around, of the women with their big breasts and long legs. That was what he _should_ think of, he knew, but instead he kept remembering the way Arthur’s hand had felt, warm against the back of his neck.

Biting back a groan, feeling ashamed but too desperate to stop, he finally stuck a hand under the blankets and stroked himself. He thought of Arthur’s smile and imagined what his mouth would taste like if he kissed it, finally coming to the thought of Arthur touching him, his body pressed against his own, warm and hard.

**

_August 6, 1940. 0900 hours. Day 21._

Merlin fiddled with his oxygen, throwing a quick look back over his shoulder. The sky was still clear. “So what do you think they’re planning?” he said into the R/T. “It’s been pretty quiet the last few days.”

“Not the time or the place for gossip, Green Two,” Arthur replied. “And pull back a bit, won’t you? You’re practically on my tail.”

“Sorry.” The drill of flying close to your wingmates in tight formation that he had learned in his Operational Training Unit still took over sometimes when he wasn’t paying attention. He drifted away from Arthur’s plane. It was just A Flight on this patrol, checking out some blips off the south coast.

“And remember that conversation we had about deflection shooting?” Arthur went on. “Give me an answer, Green Two,” he commanded when Merlin didn’t reply.

“Yes, Green One, I remember.” Merlin was sure Tristan and Lance were laughing silently in their cockpits. Arthur seemed to delight in giving him little lessons, pointing out all his faults when they were on patrol.

“Well, you might give it a try some time.” Merlin could just picture Arthur’s smirk. “You didn’t put a dent in that last wing of Heinkels we encountered.”

“It’s not my fault the bloody things have enough armor to stop a sodding cannon ball,” Merlin growled. “Not to mention I was a little busy with the Me 110s that showed up.”

“Excuses, excuses, Merlin,” Arthur drawled.

Merlin gritted his teeth and looked back over his shoulder again, ready to respond with a few disparaging comments about Arthur’s lineage and lack of intelligence. The little swarm of black dots he spotted completely dissipated his anger, replacing it with the cold, hyper-aware state he had come to associate with battle.

“Bandits, three o’clock. Looks like,” he craned his neck again, “maybe ten Me 109s.”

“Remember our orders—don’t engage fighters, it’s only the bombers we care about,” Arthur said calmly. “Turn around and let’s get out of here.”

Merlin started to turn, then saw that Tristan was curving in the opposite direction, towards the fighters. “Tristan, what the hell are you doing?”

“Green Three, get back in formation,” Arthur ordered.

“I’m not going to just run away and let those bastards who killed Gawain go unchallenged,” Tristan replied, fury thrumming through his words.

“Green Three, I _order_ you to turn around.”

Tristan kept going.

“Dammit!” Arthur swore, and the next second, he was pulling about in a tight arc. “Green Two, Green Four, follow my lead. Engage the fighters.”

“Yes, sir,” Merlin said, switching his guns on.

They closed in fast. One second the 109s were barely distinguishable, the next, they were hurtling overhead as Merlin threw his Spitfire into a sharp turn. The engine thundered in his ears as he accelerated, pulling up under a 109 and pulling the trigger. He tried to aim ahead—aim where it was _going_ to be, the deflection shooting that Arthur was trying to teach him. He might have clipped the wing, but the German pilot banked, and Merlin twisted to follow him, both of them spinning down into a dive.

He couldn’t hear the bullets, just saw the tracer sparkling out his right window, and he cursed, abruptly pulling out of the dive. The 109 that had snuck up behind him went skimming past, and the next second its tail started disintegrating. It dropped like a stone, and Lance’s Spitfire shot through the empty space where it had been.

“Nice shot, Green Four,” Merlin said, taking a deep breath before curving back around. The scrap was still hot, pilots all intent on their deadly games. He caught sight of Arthur, a 109 sticking to him, stubbornly resisting Arthur’s attempts to shake him. Merlin’s heart clenched, and he flung his plane forward.

“Green One, get ready to dive when I tell you to,” Merlin said over the R/T, lining up, figuring out the trajectory of the planes.

“What are you playing at?” Arthur demanded, voice tight from the strain.

“Just do it, Arthur!” Merlin snapped, and he dropped into a graceful swoop. Almost, almost—“Dive!”

Arthur did, and at the same moment, Merlin pulled up. Suddenly, he and the 109 were heading straight at each other. Merlin hammered away with the guns. “Come on, come on you bastard!”  
The 109 opened up, and he felt the bullets slamming into the Spitfire. “Come _on_!”

But the 109 wasn’t breaking away, it wasn’t turning. Merlin had time for the terrifying realization that they were going to crash into each other, and then the 109 was on top of him, and their planes collided with a bone-jarring crunch.

The force of the impact stunned him for a moment. When he blinked, managed to focus, flames were licking their way up out of the engine. A second later it seized up, and the airscrew stopped, blades twisted back from the collision. Frantically, Merlin tugged on the toggle to release the cockpit hood. Nothing. He yanked harder, but it wouldn’t budge.

Coughing, smoke filtering up and obscuring his view, Merlin nudged the Spitfire to the right. He could see blurry shapes down below—land. _Please—just stay up a little longer. Just a little longer_. His eyes were watering, and he was getting light-headed. Any second the engine could blow. _Come on, sweetheart._

A horrible, wrenching shriek heralded the nose of his plane hitting the ground. The force of it flung him against his shoulder straps, slamming him into his instrument panel. _Have to get out_. He tugged off the straps, pounded desperately at the Perspex hood. _Open! You wretched, worthless thing, open!_

He hammered his fists against it, as hard as he could, choking from the smoke. Air suddenly rushed in, and the hood rose jerkily. Merlin scrambled out, tumbled down the side and fell onto his knees. He clambered up, lungs burning and ran forward a few yards before falling down again. Rolling onto his back, he breathed deeply, coughs shaking his body. His knuckles burned, cut and bleeding from battering on the hood. The sky was empty up above him. _Please, let Arthur be all right_.

[](http://s1181.photobucket.com/user/riventhorn/media/Merlin/koa___ditch_by_amphigoury-d31sbiy-1_zps2defae6a.jpg.html)

When he could stand, he stumbled over the fields to the nearest farmhouse. The man and woman who met him at the door didn’t say a word about the charred scar Merlin’s Spitfire had left in their barley field, just bandaged his hands and gave him some blessedly cool water to drink. The farmer drove him to the nearest RAF base, and from there, Merlin hitched rides on a succession of lorries back to Kenley. The afternoon stretched into evening, and he fell asleep, curled up in the seat.

_The Messerschmitt loomed before him, blotting out the sun. Again, the shock of impact. His cockpit hood shattered into a million pieces, the sharp ends glinting, hurtling towards his face—_

Merlin jerked awake, mouth dry, heart hammering. He stared out the window the rest of the way, forcing his tired eyes to stay open. Once had been enough—he didn’t need to relive it in his dreams.

When they reached Kenley, it was too dark for him to count the Spitfires on the field. He went straight to Hill’s office.

“Glad to see you’re alive, Emmeris,” Hill said.

“Is Arthur—are the others all right?” Merlin blurted.

Hill nodded, and he sagged in relief, sinking down into a chair.

“You up to going back out there tomorrow?” Hill asked after a moment.

All Merlin wanted to do was sleep, rest his aching hands and body. But they needed him up in his Spitfire, not lying in a bed. There weren’t enough of them, not against the hundreds of bombers and fighters the Germans kept throwing at them.

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly.

“Good. Now go get some rest.”

He made it a few steps down the hallway when Arthur was suddenly there, gripping his shirt and slamming him up against the wall.

“What the _hell_ did you think you were doing?” Arthur demanded in a hoarse voice. His face was pale, shadows under his eyes, uniform rumpled.

Merlin scrabbled at Arthur’s hand, tried to get him to let go, but Arthur hung on. “Wasn’t my fault the Jerry was a blooming idiot. How was I supposed to know he wasn’t going to turn?”

“You were both idiots!” Arthur’s grip tightened fractionally, and then he let go, shoulders slumping. “When I saw your plane going down…” he trailed off and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Hey,” Merlin said quietly, putting his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I’m okay.”

“If you _ever_ pull something like that again,” Arthur said, and his hand covered Merlin’s, warm, trembling slightly.

Merlin tried a laugh. “You’re the one who keeps telling me to get in close.”

“Not that close, you fool,” Arthur said, but his expression looked so destroyed, so fragile, that Merlin stepped closer, until their bodies were almost touching and his breath stirred Arthur’s hair.

“I’m all right. Really.”

“Be more careful next time,” Arthur whispered.

“I promise.” Holding his breath, Merlin tilted his head so that it rested against Arthur’s. Arthur didn’t pull away. “By the way,” Merlin continued, “you may have noticed that I saved your life with that maneuver.”

Arthur snorted and pulled back slightly. “I had it completely under control, Merlin,” he replied, almost sounding like his usual self.

“That wasn’t how it looked to me.” Merlin grinned. “I think you owe me a drink—actually more than one, preferably quite a few.”

“Maybe I do.” Arthur gave him a little push towards the stairs. “Not now, though. You look like you’re about to keel right over. Go get some sleep.”

Merlin didn’t even undress before tumbling into his bed. His last thoughts before falling asleep revolved around the smell of sweat and leather that lingered around Arthur, how Arthur had asked him to be careful. Flopping over, he muffled a groan in his pillow. He was letting down his guard again, letting Arthur slip past his defenses. After living with the hurt of rejection for months, all it took was that hint of fragility in Arthur’s voice, the suggestion that he cared, and Merlin couldn’t help entertaining his old hopes and dreams once again.

[](http://s1181.photobucket.com/user/riventhorn/media/Merlin/koa___noseart_by_amphigoury-d31sbg5-1_zps43fbe6af.jpg.html)

**  
Notes:

*Merlin’s collision with the Me 109 is taken from an incident that happened to pilot Al Deere on July 9, 1940.

*Cobham’s Flying Circus was immensely popular in Britain in the 1930s. Sir Alan John Cobham was a British aviation pioneer, who had fought in WWI.


	3. Chapter 3

_December, 1939_

Merlin flung his fingers over the keys in a final glissando, drawing out the last note so that it lingered in the air.

“Not bad,” Will observed from his perch on the counter. The shop was empty—Friday afternoons were always slow, the saxophones and clarinets perched in the window failing to entice any customers, so Merlin had taken to dropping in on his way home from work. “You should play with my band one evening.”

“Don’t you spend most of the night drinking?”

Will grinned. “Well, come and drink with us, then.”

“Maybe next week,” he hedged.

“So you say.” Will jumped off the counter and came to lean over the piano. “I still think you have a girl stashed away somewhere that you go running off to every weekend. What is it? Is she married? A widower?”

“Nothing like that,” Merlin said, getting up and putting on his jacket.

“No need to be so mysterious, Merlin,” Will continued in a wheedling tone. “If you won’t come have drinks with us, what are you doing?”

“I’m just tired is all.” Merlin wrapped his scarf around his neck, tucking the ends into his jacket. “I don’t feel like going out.”

Will gave him a very skeptical look, but didn’t pursue the matter. “I’ll see you next week,” Merlin told him. “And thanks for letting me play the piano.”

Will waved him off with a final admonition to get off his sorry arse and go have a good time for once.

Out on the street, Merlin drew in a deep breath of the chilly air. He wondered what Will would say if he told him, “Actually, I’m planning to go to one of the cinemas and grope some bloke in the dark.” Would Will just laugh and clap him on the shoulder or would he call him a poof and tell him to get out of the shop? Merlin didn’t know, and he didn’t want to risk it being the latter.

Since coming to Enfield a few months ago, Merlin had slowly managed to piece together the best places to go in London if you were looking for guys and not girls. A number of bars in the West End had been mentioned, but Merlin didn’t know if he was feeling brave enough to try something so open. The Turkish baths were notorious, of course, but he’d be wandering around naked and the thought that anyone would be able to see his reaction if he started becoming aroused made his palms start sweating. He needed something more private for the first time. Not that a cinema wasn’t in public, but it would be dark, and from what Merlin gathered, most of the time it was just a bit of kissing and fondling.

He was just wondering nervously if he ought to sit by himself or try to approach someone when there was a sudden screech of tires, and a wave of cold water splashed up off the street onto his shoes.

“Hey!” Merlin exclaimed, outraged. A sleek, dark green Bentley—a brand new Mark V by the looks of it—had stopped next to him on the street. “Look here,” Merlin began, going over to pound on the window. “You can’t just—”

The door opened, and the words died in his throat. “Arthur?”

Arthur grinned, leaning across the seat. “I thought it was you, Merlin.”

“You splashed water all over my shoes!”

“Sorry,” Arthur said, not sounding at all contrite. “Hop in. It’s bloody cold out today.”

Merlin gaped at him, and Arthur gestured impatiently. “Come on, Merlin. Have you gone deaf?”

Scowling, Merlin slid into the car. _Of course_ Arthur would own a Bentley. It purred happily as Arthur drew away from the curve.

“Like the car?” Arthur asked, reaching out to pat the dashboard.

“It’s all right,” Merlin muttered.

“You should see my Gipsy Moth.”

“You got one?” Of course he remembered that Arthur was going to get one—he had wanked off to the memory of his last meeting with Arthur for five bloody years. And now he was sitting right next to the object of his fantasies, who still had that easy charm, every inch the well-dressed gentleman.

“Just last year.” A fond smile curved Arthur’s mouth. “She’s perfectly sweet. I go flying practically every weekend with the squadron at Cambridge.”

Merlin didn’t answer, a familiar bitterness squeezing his heart.

Arthur cleared his throat. “So, where am I going?”

Merlin gave him the directions for his flat.

“Found a job around here, I take it?” Arthur lit a cigarette and offered one to Merlin.

“I’ve been working as a clerk at an engineering works.” Merlin shrugged. “Not the best, but I can send something home to my mum every week.” His fingers brushed Arthur’s as he took the cigarette, and he shivered.

“Want to stop for a drink?”

He shouldn’t—no point in torturing himself with things that couldn’t be. But a few minutes with Arthur couldn’t hurt—a few minutes to remember the past and memorize what Arthur looked and sounded like now, a new memory that he could hoard for the lonely nights to come. “Fine.”

Arthur pulled in next to a pub, and they hurried over the pavement, moving quickly from the heated car to the smoky warmth inside. He followed Arthur to a table and sat there, trying to think of something to say.

Arthur stretched out, slinging his arms over the back of the seat. “Have you heard the rumors about this new fighter the Germans supposedly have? Sounds like more than a match for the Hurricanes.”

“I’ve heard a little.” The British Expeditionary Force had been in France since September, but few Germans had tested the lines. “Our squadrons aren’t seeing much action.”

“The Jerries will hold back the big stuff—wait until the invasion is really on—then they’ll hit with everything they’ve got.” Arthur shook his head. “When they do, Reynaud will be clamoring for us to send more planes.”

“Well they can’t expect us to leave our own shores defenseless. What if France fell?” Merlin stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “You don’t think it will, do you?”

Arthur shook his head. “We’ve got some of our best units over there. Still—it wouldn’t do to be unprepared. Once Chamberlain is out, perhaps we’ll get someone more capable of leading this country in a crisis.”

“Hopefully not Lord Holy Fox.”

Arthur chuckled. “Yes, I like Churchill better myself.”

It was strange how easy it was to talk to Arthur. They hadn’t seen each other in years, but Merlin almost felt as though they had been coming to this pub every day for weeks, chatting about the daily news over a pint. “If the war does heat up,” he said, striving to keep his tone casual, “the RAFVR will probably be looking for a lot of new recruits.”

“God preserve us all, if you get in the cockpit of a Hurricane or one of those Spitfires,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes.

“I could fly!” Merlin couldn’t help the petulant tone that crept into his voice. “I want to fly. And shoot down any Huns who try to invade us.”

Arthur studied him for a long moment, and then raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.” He took a long pull, and then set his glass down, checking his watch. “Look, I have to get going, but a few of my friends are getting together at a party tomorrow night at the Bag o’ Nails. You should come.”

“All right,” Merlin agreed, surprised, but pleased that Arthur would ask him.

“Good.” Arthur reached across the table and squeezed Merlin’s hand. “It’s marvelous to see you again.”

Then it was back to Arthur’s car through a freezing drizzle, sitting there trying not to stare at how Arthur’s wet hair clung to his forehead while he cursed at the foggy windshield, and getting out in front of his flat and watching Arthur drive off. Merlin felt stunned, couldn’t quite believe that he had just been talking to Arthur, that Arthur had invited him out the following evening. Slowly he made his way inside, put a kettle of water on to boil, and sat down by the window. He watched as the street lights winked on and wondered if Arthur still loved Fox’s biscuits and if Bristol was still alive.

**

The Bag O’ Nails was crowded on a Saturday evening, the band playing a lively number on stage, and Merlin wished he hadn’t come. He had been excited all day, thinking about what he would say to Arthur, if perhaps he might try rubbing his thumb along Arthur’s wrist, just to see—just in case…

But as he approached Arthur’s table, he quickly realised what a stupid idea that had been. Several couples sat to either side of Arthur, all of them dressed to the nines, laughing and joking. And Arthur—Arthur had his arm around a girl in a silver evening gown, her blond hair coifed and curled around her face, lipstick a flashy red under the dim lights.

Arthur spotted him and waved him over. “Merlin, glad you could make it.” He started introducing people, but Merlin lost most of their names, fixated on the girl pressed against Arthur. “And this is Sophie,” Arthur finished, giving her a smile.

Sophie gave Merlin an appraising glance and raised an eyebrow. “Charmed,” she murmured and exchanged a look with one of the other women at the table. They both giggled.

Merlin flushed, conscious of his cheap suit and their condescending stares. Reluctantly, he sat down and ordered a drink.

“Rotten weather, isn’t it?” the man next to him commented, and then proceeded to ignore Merlin in favor of whispering with his girlfriend. Arthur was talking over Sophie’s shoulder with the other couple, something about a racing car they wanted to order from America. Merlin stared determinedly at the band, trying to pretend that he didn’t care that no one was paying any attention to him.

He lasted about half an hour before muttering something about needing air and escaping out the side of the club. He leaned against the wall, fumbling for a cigarette. It was dark, the only illumination from headlights that occasionally flashed by on the street. God, he had been an idiot to come. He should have left Arthur in his fantasies where he was safe and familiar, where he lavished Merlin with soft kisses and softer words. The reality—Merlin scrubbed a hand over his face. They had been friends a long time ago. He couldn’t expect anything more from Arthur then a few words over a drink and an invitation that Arthur had probably felt obligated to give him.

He was just about to walk off—damned if he would go back and give his apologies—when the door opened, and Arthur stepped out.

“There you are,” Arthur said. “I was beginning to think you’d left.”

“I am leaving. Sorry, but I have an early day tomorrow.”

Arthur put a hand against the wall next to him, a little unsteady on his feet. “You’re lying. I can always tell when you’re lying, Merlin.”

“Well you’re drunk, and I don’t care much for your friends,” Merlin retorted.

Arthur laughed and suddenly his hand was on Merlin’s arm, gripping tightly. “I’m not ready to let you go just yet.”

Merlin tried to wrench his arm away, but Arthur moved swiftly, pinning Merlin’s other arm against the wall, too. He was close, leaning in, his head tilted slightly. Merlin could smell the whisky on his breath. He shut his eyes when Arthur’s lips brushed against his. Tentative for a second and then harder, Arthur’s hands letting go of his arms to wind in his hair. Merlin slid his own hands up Arthur’s back, urging him closer, shutting out the last sliver of cold air in between them.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Arthur whispered when he finally broke away.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Arthur rested his forehead against Merlin’s for a moment, and then started to pull back. Merlin grabbed his hand, holding on.

“Arthur—” he started, but the door opened again, releasing a giggling couple who stumbled down the stairs. Arthur jerked his hand away. A second later Sophie was there, querulously telling Arthur to come back inside, that they were going to go over to Jim and Helen’s for drinks and a late supper.

“I’ll be right there,” Arthur said, not looking, his eyes still on Merlin. The lights from a passing car swept over Arthur’s face and shone into Merlin’s eyes. He blinked, and when his vision cleared, Arthur was vanishing back into the club.

Merlin hardly slept that night, stuck on the feeling of Arthur kissing him. He really expected Arthur to come over the next day or at least call. He spent the whole day in his flat, sitting by the phone, continually getting up to look out the window for Arthur’s Bentley. But Arthur didn’t come. Didn’t call. Nothing on Monday, either. On Tuesday, Merlin finally worked up the courage to give Arthur a ring.

“It’s me. Merlin,” he said nervously when Arthur answered.

A second of silence and then Arthur said in a cool, impersonal tone, “Merlin.”

“I—I thought that perhaps we could see each other again this weekend,” Merlin stammered, twisting the chord of the telephone in his fingers. “If you’d like to.”

“Pretty busy, I’m afraid. Perhaps another time.”

“Oh. Right.”

There was a click as Arthur hung up.

He sat there for a long time, staring at the phone, thinking back over all the times Arthur had been callous. All the times Arthur had been caring and affectionate. That kiss outside the club. Finally, he wandered down to the music store and sat at the piano.

“You ever going to play something, Merlin?” Will asked. “You’ve been sitting there staring at the wall for the past twenty minutes. I’m closing up, soon.”

“My name isn’t really Merlin, you know,” he replied, blinking back the sharp sting of tears.

“I figured that,” Will said dryly. “Or else your mum was a real nutter.”

“My name is Paul.” He closed his eyes, remembering the feeling of Arthur’s lips against his own. “Call me that from now on, won’t you?”

**  
 _August 8, 1940. 1630 hours. Day 23._

For the most part, the commissioned officers treated the NCOs as equals. Merlin had been somewhat surprised, the first time Arthur sat down with them at a card game. He’d half-expected Arthur and the other blokes such as Hill or Pellinore—all public-school boys who’d flown in university squadrons or gone through the cadet college at Cranwell—to shun the sergeant pilots. He knew it happened at other airfields. It could get as extreme as threats of a court martial if officers socialized with the NCOs, the pilots who had worked their way up through technical schools or joined the RAFVR, who carried the stigma of being working class, educated in state schools and laboring in factories.

That afternoon, he was lounging about in the sergeants’ mess, reading _No Orchids for Miss Blandish_ , when Arthur came through the door.

“Got the wrong room haven’t you?” he said. “The officers’ mess is down the hall.”

Arthur sat down in a chair next to him, pulling out his cigarettes. “Hill and that ass of an intelligence officer of ours are in there, jabbering away.”

Merlin chuckled. None of the pilots cared too much for Jenkins, the intelligence officer, who always made them fill out the F forms in excruciating detail whenever they returned from a scrap.

“Jenkins thinks we should fit the planes with cameras that start recording whenever you fire the guns.” Arthur scowled. “Says we aren’t hitting as many Huns as we claim to be.”

“He might be correct,” Merlin admitted reluctantly. “I never know what the hell’s going on out there.”

“Well I knew _that_ ,” Arthur replied, smirking. “Never expected you to admit it, though.”

“Oh, shut it,” Merlin told him, lobbing a cushion his way. Arthur ducked and then tipped his head back, resting it against the wall. He closed his eyes.

“Really, though,” Merlin went on. “I never thought you’d be fraternizing with us lowly sergeants as much as you do.”

Arthur’s eyes opened a fraction. “I didn’t, at first. But then Dunkirk happened and…” He shrugged. “I have just as good a chance at getting killed up there as you do.”

Merlin hadn’t known Arthur had been at Dunkirk. Just the thought of what it must have been like made him feel ill. All those men trapped on the beaches, the Germans getting ever closer, ships sitting ducks on the water as they tried to evacuate the troops.

“Not that your manners aren’t appalling and your knowledge of the classics truly awful,” Arthur added, and Merlin threw another pillow at him.

**

_August 9, 1940. 2040 hours. Day 24._

Tristan and Vivien, Lance, Kay, and two more Waafs whose names Merlin didn’t know were already crowded into the car. “I don’t think I’ll fit,” Merlin said doubtfully.

“You can sit on my lap, sugar,” one of the girls cooed, and they all laughed.

“Thanks, but—”

“Merlin, we’re going to London,” Lance said. “We’re all going to get completely pissed and forget about this whole cock up for a while. Now get in.”

Merlin sighed and managed to wriggle into a corner, wedged in between Kay and the door. Tristan hit the gas hard, and they shot off, the Ford 8 rattling over every pothole and rock hard enough to jar a few teeth loose.

Kay’s right leg and hand kept jerking, little involuntary twitches. Merlin didn’t think Kay was even aware it was happening—he was staring fixedly at the dashboard. Kay had been flying with the squadron since early July. A lucky hit from a 110 had forced him to walk out the other day, leaping from his plane when the engine caught fire. He’d ended up in someone’s duck pond. Merlin grimaced, remembering the way the smoke had filled his cockpit, the sheer panic he’d felt when the hood wouldn’t open.

He stretched across Kay and flicked on the radio.

They made it to London around ten o’clock. The blackout kept everything dark, but the sounds were still the same—cars, people, muted noise filtering out from radios and clubs. It was strange, disorienting. Occasionally a door would open, spilling golden light onto the pavement for a brief second before closing.

Tristan somehow found a club, and they all rushed inside, clumping in the door and then spreading out to the bar and the dance floor. Merlin started out with a scotch. He had another one a few minutes later, another after that.

Arthur arrived near midnight. There was a girl with him. Not Sophie, probably a Waaf from the base. They started dancing, and Merlin turned away from the dark blue of Arthur’s jacket and the way his muscles stretched the fabric as he lifted his arms.

He had just finished off another drink and was contemplating how much it would take before he passed out completely, when a girl with curly brown hair sat down across from him. “You’re one of those fighter boys, aren’t you?” she said, her gaze lingering on Merlin’s uniform. “You sure look grand.”

Merlin blushed and hesitated, unsure what to say.

She took out a mirror and checked her lipstick, and then glanced up at him. “I didn’t get togged to the bricks for nothing, you know. The least you could do is give a girl a little compliment.”

“You look lovely,” Merlin said quickly. “Really, you do.”

She rolled her eyes. The band struck up a new song—[ “In the Mood,”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bR3K5uB-wMA) and she leaned forward. “I don’t suppose you want to dance?”

Merlin didn’t, but he pictured Arthur, gliding to the beat of the drums, and stood up, offering her his hand. “What’s your name?”

“Irene.” She gave him a dimpled smile.

The dance floor was crowded, and he didn’t see Arthur anymore. Kay was sitting at a table by himself, looking pale, and Merlin led Irene over there after the dance was finished. He introduced them, and a flicker of interest lit Kay’s eyes. Irene gave Merlin a considering look, and he took a step back and motioned for her to sit down.

“I’ll go get some drinks,” he said, and after a moment, Irene nodded and sat next to Kay, giving him a bright smile.

Merlin lingered at the bar as long as he could and by the time he made his way back to the table, Irene and Kay were out on the floor, dancing.

He spent the next few hours perched at the bar, surreptitiously observing Arthur, who always seemed to be at the center of a laughing group, his glass in hand, regaling them with stories and jokes. Merlin finally turned around, hunching over his drink.

He managed to get drunk enough that leaning on the arm of the man next to him and lamenting the current course of his life seemed like a good idea.

“I hadn’t seen him for years,” Merlin said, blinking up at the man, who had gentle brown eyes—and really, brown was so much nicer than blue. “And then suddenly he’s here, and I’m here, and it just—it just seems like fate, you know?”

“I know, old chap,” the man said, trying to pry Merlin’s fingers off his elbow.

“He’s still a bastard. What does he mean by going on about how concerned he is and then coming up here with some girl? He never even apologized for the way he acted last winter.” Merlin leaned closer, his eyes fixed on the man’s mouth. “I should show him just what he’s missing.”

Before he could go any further—and he was probably going to end up offering to give the man a blow job in the loo at this rate—a heavy hand descended on his shoulder and jerked him back.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, sounding exasperated, “you’re drooling on this fine gentleman’s jacket.”

“I am not!” Merlin protested. He tried to stand, but the bar stool seemed to have grown a few feet.

Arthur grabbed him. “Let’s get you out of here before you disgrace the squadron.”

Merlin couldn’t seem to find the words to respond, not when Arthur’s arm was around him, holding him close enough to study the firm line of Arthur’s jaw and the hungry way his mouth beckoned Merlin to press his own against it.

The shock of the cool night air sobered him up enough to pull away from Arthur with a jerk, blushing. Arthur didn’t say anything, just led him to his car, the lovely green Bentley. He opened the driver’s side door, gesturing for Merlin to get in. Merlin fumbled with the handle for a moment, and then sank onto the seat, still feeling the loose insouciance of being drunk, but also an undercurrent of weary resignation. This was the real Arthur—not his fantasy, not a long ago friend, but a person that Merlin didn’t really know. So much had happened to each of them, in between. And Arthur had already hurt him once before.

“Where’s the girl?” Merlin asked.

Arthur’s gaze flickered to him briefly, then back to the road. “She wandered off with another chap.”

“You don’t sound too put out.”

“I’m not,” Arthur replied, and then he fell silent.

It was late—past two in the morning, and the blacked-out headlights only cut a narrow strip of light down the road in front of them. All too soon, though, the sun would be rising. The sun would rise, and the Germans would come, and they’d have to fly up to meet them. He wondered who would buy it today—Tristan, Kay, himself, Arthur. Soon there wouldn’t be any of them left. There would be rows of gleaming Spitfires and Hurricanes stretched out to the horizon, but no one to fly them.

“That’s why we have to keep going,” he said, belatedly realising that he had spoken aloud. “There’s no one else.”

“That’s true,” Arthur said calmly, as though he knew exactly what Merlin was talking about. Perhaps he did.

“Do you think we’ll be able to hold them off?” Merlin asked, feeling a detached curiosity, there in the dark, like he was talking about someone else, far away.

“Yes,” Arthur replied, and he sounded so certain that Merlin found himself nodding in agreement. Of course they would—no question about it. He started laughing and couldn’t stop for a while, finally wheezing to an exhausted halt.

Arthur drove on in silence, the miles ticking by. Merlin pressed his face against the window and stared blankly at the stars, flickering in between the trees.

Suddenly, Arthur yanked the wheel hard to the left and pulled off the road, rumbling to a halt. He killed the engine and silence descended. Merlin gave him a questioning look, but Arthur kept looking straight ahead, his hands still clenched on the steering wheel.

“So what about you?” Arthur said abruptly, as though they were continuing a conversation that had never started. “Have you—”

“Have I what?”

“You know—with a girl.”

“Oh.” Merlin swallowed. “No. Not with a girl. You?”

“I tried with Sophie a few times, but…” Arthur trailed off. He lit a cigarette, the match illuminating his face for a second, all shadowed lines and rough stubble.

“I don’t really like girls that much,” Merlin said quietly.

“Yeah.” There was a pause, and then Arthur said harshly, “Yeah, I guess we’re both bloody queers.”

“I guess so.” Merlin looked out the window again.

“Well, we probably won’t be alive long enough for it to matter.” Arthur took a long drag on his cigarette, and after a moment said gruffly, “C’mere.” He held out his arm. Slowly, Merlin slid across the seat. He put one hand on Arthur’s chest, and when he felt Arthur’s arm settle around him, he rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder, tilting it so that he was pressing his face into Arthur’s neck. He felt the fingers of Arthur’s other hand lightly carding through his hair.

“Merlin,” Arthur murmured awhile later. “You’re falling asleep.”

“Mmmm,” he sighed, pressing closer, not wanting to move.

But Arthur nudged him up and started the engine again. “We have to be on stand-by in an hour or two.”

Merlin reluctantly moved back a little, but he stayed close enough to touch Arthur—reaching up to rub the prickly stubble on his jaw or catch his finger on chapped lips. Whenever he did, Arthur glanced at him and then back out the windshield, a smile briefly curving over his mouth.

They went straight to the ready room when they arrived back at the airfield. The sky was lightening and thankfully the cook was already there with some hot coffee and tea and breakfast. Merlin slumped in a chair, watching as Tristan, Kay, and the others trickled back in, all looking tired and disheveled.

“Crank the oxygen up full blast when you get in,” Arthur said, sitting down across from him, a piece of bacon in hand. “It’ll take the edge off the hangover.”

Merlin leaned forward. “You won’t go back on this, will you?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Arthur said and flipped open the paper. Merlin wasn’t sure if he believed him, but as Arthur said, they probably wouldn’t be alive long enough for any of it to matter, so he would take what he could get.

**

_August 12, 1940. 1100 hours. Day 27._

Merlin fiddled with his transmitter as Hill gave them their orders over the R/T. “We’re heading for Portsmouth. Control reports a force of two hundred plus bandits and one hundred bombers. Squadrons 11, 54, 102, and 56 will be joining us. Angels twenty.”

Portsmouth. It appeared that the Germans might finally be moving inland, abandoning their attacks on the Channel in favor of new targets. There were reports that a number of radar stations along the coast had been bombed that morning—Dover, Rye, Pevensey.

When the flights appeared in the distance, Merlin felt a sick swirl of panic. Countless clouds of fighters and bombers proceeded steadily towards their target. It was the largest attack Merlin had seen. A steady month of raiding, and the Luftwaffe kept increasing the numbers of planes—a never-ending supply. The Germans must have thousands, and Fighter Command could barely muster a few hundred. They were only sending five squadrons to attack this lot—their squadron of Spitfires plus forty-eight Hurricanes. Just over fifty planes against hundreds.

“Remember, leave the fighters alone. Concentrate on the bombers,” Hill ordered.

“You with me, Green Two?” Arthur asked.

“Roger that, Green One,” Merlin replied, glancing over at Arthur’s Spitfire.

“Try to keep up,” Arthur said and then peeled away, going into a steep dive.

“Not a problem,” Merlin muttered, shooting after him. They zeroed in on one of the Ju 88s. Arthur strafed it with his guns, and Merlin copied him, raking the bomber from nose to wing. Then they were past it, and a group of 109s was buzzing past them, tracer flickering through the air. Merlin pulled up into a climb, and the Messerschmitt behind him began falling back, unable to match the Spitfire’s power. He reversed then, tipping his plane over to come at the 109 from above. The Brownings rattled away, and the 109’s wing started disintegrating.

He swerved to the left then—always dangerous to stay in a straight line for too long during a fight—and caught sight of another Messerschmitt behind him. He tried pulling into a turn, but the bastard was good and didn’t let him get on his tail. Swiftly, Merlin yanked on the stick and plummeted into a dive. The Gs dragged at his body, and his vision started going black around the edges. He pulled up, tried to get his bearings, found the sky thankfully empty around him.

The Germans were drawing back, but the bombers had managed to hit their target. He could see smoke rising from the ground—all the Royal Dockyards aflame.

Arthur’s voice came over the R/T. “Our orders are to return to base.” A pause. “The CO bought it. I’m taking command.”

“Christ!” Tristan exclaimed, and Merlin’s chest tightened. Hill had never gotten very friendly with the rest of the pilots, but he had been a good man, a good commander. Merlin still remembered how he had praised Arthur’s fighting skills when Merlin first arrived, even though Arthur pushed the limits of disobedience. And now Arthur would be taking over—Merlin had no doubt that the promotion would become permanent.

When they landed, Merlin could already sense a change in Arthur. The way he held himself, how he talked with the ground crew. He had been waiting, holding back in deference to Hill, but now he was assuming that air of command that came so naturally.

Merlin caught up to Arthur as he strode towards headquarters, yanking off his helmet and running a hand through his sweaty hair.

“All that practice when you were little is about to pay off,” Merlin commented. “I suppose you’ll want us to start calling you, ‘your majesty.’”

Arthur glanced sideways at him. “I think ‘sir’ will be adequate. Although the other might come in handy when you fetch me my drink and supper in the evening.”

“I’m not your bloody servant,” Merlin retorted, and Arthur laughed.

“Watch your manners, Merlin, or I’ll put you in the kitchen, washing dishes.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“No, I suppose not. I need you up there in your Spitfire, shooting down Huns.” Arthur’s light tone faltered, turning grim and resigned.

“Finally admitting I’m a good pilot?” Merlin asked, wanting to hear Arthur’s laugh again.

“If I do get promoted to CO, you’re going to be constantly annoying me, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Merlin replied, grinning broadly, and Arthur’s smile shone briefly in return.

**

_August 13, 1940. 0800 hours. Day 28._

They were ready to scramble at dawn, but from scattered reports, it sounded as though 10 Group was bearing the brunt of the attack for once.

“The Jerries aren’t bothering with the Channel anymore, that’s for sure,” Lance remarked, tossing down his cards. They had moved the table and a few chairs out onto the grass in the sunshine. Tristan was sprawled on the ground, arm over his face. Merlin had joined Kay and Lance in a game of pontoon. Arthur was sitting a short distance away, staring out at the Spitfires.

“Rumor has it that they hit the aerodrome at Eastchurch this morning,” Kay said. “If they start bombing our airfields, we’ll lose planes, not to mention places to put them. And Fighter Command will just keep sending us up in little sorties—a few Hurricanes there, a few Spitfires this time. How can we do anything if we’re always outnumbered?”

Arthur suddenly loomed over them. “I don’t want you listening to rumors. It doesn’t do any good speculating about what’s going on until we have the facts.” He focused on Kay. “And you’ve no cause to be criticizing Dowding. As long as we can keep putting fighters up in the air, we have a chance—we can’t risk everything on one massive attack. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Kay muttered, and Arthur glared at the rest of them until they responded.

“And I thought Hill was bad,” Tristan said, as Arthur disappeared into the ready room.

“He’s just nervous,” Merlin told them, getting to his feet. “If the Germans really do start accelerating their attacks, wouldn’t you rather have Arthur up there commanding the squadron?” He didn’t wait for their rueful nods, but went inside, ducking through the door and blinking as his eyes adjusted.

Arthur was sitting at the table by the operations phone, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair.

“You’ll be fine, you know,” Merlin said quietly, sitting down across from him. “You always did what you thought was best anyway—now at least you won’t be facing a court martial for it.”

Arthur huffed and gave Merlin an annoyed look, but he relaxed fractionally. “Did I say I wanted your company?”

“Shall I leave you to brood in peace, your highness?” Merlin inquired, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Just sit down, you idiot.”

Merlin did, stretching his legs out in front of him. He fished out a cigarette, offered one to Arthur. After a minute, he slowly reached his fingers out and brushed them across Arthur’s hand where it lay on the table. Arthur didn’t say anything, didn’t ask him to stop, so Merlin kept them there, his thumb rubbing across Arthur’s knuckles.

The day dragged by with no action in their sector. By evening, reports were coming in that another large force of Stukas and Ju 88s had arrived in the afternoon. Heavy damage had been sustained at an aerodrome by Detling, with high numbers of casualties on the ground. Kay’s earlier prediction appeared to be true—even though Detling hadn’t been part of Fighter Command, the Germans were obviously turning their sights on the airfields.

Merlin slept uneasily that night, constantly jerking awake to the memory of being trapped in the cockpit as it filled with smoke. He lay in the dark, listening to Tristan’s snores, thinking about the 109 he had shot up the day before, and the German pilot inside it. Perhaps he had managed to bale out, managed to land safely.

**

_August 15, 1940. 1100 hours. Day 29._

The call to scramble came at eleven with orders to patrol over Hawkinge. Merlin flew close behind Arthur, their flight now leading the squadron. They were still down one pilot—no replacement had been sent for Hill yet. A few minutes from the coast, 501 Squadron joined them, and they arrowed towards Hawkinge.

“Control reports a large force of Stukas, escorted by Me 109s,” Arthur said over the R/T. “They’ll be trying for the airfields, so remember, go for the Stukas. Green Three, how’s the engine?”

“Seems all right now, sir,” Tristan replied.

“Well if it gives you any trouble, turn around immediately, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Merlin had the feeling that if it were possible, Arthur would have personally inspected everyone’s plane before taking off.

They spotted the cloud of bombers and fighters a minute later. Merlin took a steadying breath, resting his hands lightly on the control column, feeling the engine thrumming through the plane and his body. They closed on the Stukas quickly, and Merlin switched on the guns. Arthur suddenly rolled over and flew right under the lead plane, aiming at the bomber directly behind and slightly below. He must have caught it right by the engine because the next second flames and smoke came pouring out, and it started a nosedive towards the ground.

Merlin followed him, snapping off a few shots at the lead bomber, and then curving up along Arthur’s tail. He saw the Me 109 coming in from the right, heading for Arthur’s Spitfire, and he turned to meet it, bullets arching towards its path. It veered off, scared away. A second later, a burning Stuka appeared in his path, and he pulled up sharply, adrenaline blazing through his veins. For a second, smoke enveloped him, but then he was through it, soaring up into a clear sky.

He scanned the swirling fighters, trying to spot Arthur. A Spitfire and an Me 109 hurtled by, and the Spitfire turned on its back, started curving towards the ground. With a jolt, Merlin realised it was Lance.

“Lance, bale out!” Merlin shouted. _Come on, come on_. “Dammit, Lance!”

But then the hood opened, and a small figure tumbled out. The parachute opened, and thank God they were far enough over land that Lance wouldn’t float out into the Channel.

Fights always seemed to last a long time—thousands of precise seconds during which Merlin felt joined to his Spitfire, reacting without a thought, knowing exactly how much speed he could coax from it, anticipating the movements of the fighter he was chasing. In reality, most dogfights only lasted a few minutes and then the sky emptied out. The Stukas, their bombs discharged, turned around, and the fighters followed them, racing back to France before their petrol gave out.

“Did Lance make it?” Arthur asked as they flew home to Kenley.

“I think so. He was able to pull his chute at least.” Merlin paused and then added, “Excellent shooting, your majesty. Will there be a royal procession this evening?”

“Oh, shut up, Merlin,” Arthur said, exasperated, and Merlin switched off his R/T with a grin.

The newest replacement pilot was waiting for them when they returned to base. He looked young and nervous. “Christopher Dawson, reporting for duty, sir,” he said, giving Arthur a salute.

Arthur pulled off his gloves and stared hard at Dawson. “Have you ever flown in combat before?”

“No, sir. I just got out of my Operational Training Unit.”

“I thought so.” Arthur put his helmet back on. “Come with me. I’ll take you up for a bit of practice. Bert!” he yelled at his rigger. “Get her re-fueled. And make sure Dawson’s Spitfire is ready to go.”

Merlin jogged alongside Arthur as he strode back towards his plane. “Arthur, why don’t you wait an hour or so? You should eat something, rest a little.”

“In an hour, we could be scrambling again, and this time Dawson will be with us. I’m not going to send him in with nothing beyond those ridiculous formations he learned in training.”

“I’ll come along, too,” Merlin began. “It will be better with two of us, and—”

Arthur stopped and rounded on Merlin. “No. Go eat lunch and make sure that Tristan gets his engine checked out. Will you do that?”

“Of course, but—”

“That’s an order, Merlin,” Arthur said and then hoisted himself up into the cockpit.

Merlin sighed and walked back to the edge of the field, watching while Arthur took off again, Dawson shakily following him.  
**

_August 16, 1940. 0530 hours. Day 31._

They had been scrambled on two more patrols the previous day, but didn’t meet any Germans. Lance had returned in the evening, unharmed beyond a few bruises and scrapes. “We’ll need you up there tomorrow,” Arthur told him quietly, and Lance nodded.

“I know,” he had replied, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. He joined the rest of the squadron, drinking Guinness and teasing Dawson about his practice with Arthur, when Dawson kept letting Arthur get the drop on him and almost drove his Spitfire into a trench on the edge of the airfield when he taxied back into position after landing.

That morning, they gathered at dispersal, half-heartedly picking over breakfast. Merlin felt the all too familiar buzz of fear, drying out his mouth and making his stomach queasy. He hunkered in a chair, jacket drawn tight about him. Waiting for the ring of the ops phone kept him on edge, and now he was also listening for the scream of diving Stukas. Croydon had been bombed yesterday—badly. Sixty-eight people had been killed, hangars and stores destroyed. But everyone agreed the bombers had really been aiming for Kenley. It was only luck that they hadn’t been blitzed.

Eventually the call came, and they took off for Tangmere, along with two other squadrons. The bombers made it through, hitting the airfield before the British squadrons could arrive. They pursued the retreating Germans, managing to take out seven bombers. And in the fight, as 109s dived down on them, Dawson’s Spitfire was hit, and he crashed into the ocean, his plane cart-wheeling gracefully over the waves, Dawson still trapped inside the cockpit.

That evening, Merlin found Arthur in Hill’s old office—now his. Arthur was at the desk, staring at a blank sheet of paper in the typewriter. “I have to notify Dawson’s family,” he said and scrubbed a hand over his face, sighing.

“You did everything you could,” Merlin told him, sitting down. “Coming in from a Training Unit like that—he just didn’t have the experience.”

“You came straight from a Training Unit,” Arthur said, and there was something bleak about his tone.

“Lucky, I guess.”

“Luck.” Arthur stood up abruptly and came around the desk. He leaned over Merlin’s chair, staring him in the eyes. “It better be more than luck. You better be flying the best you can every single time, Merlin. Because I am not going to write one of these letters to your mother.” His voice was shaking a little, and he took a deep breath. “Is that understood?”

Merlin managed a nod, and then Arthur was kissing him, a brief, hard kiss. Before Merlin could reach for him and grip tightly at his jacket to keep Arthur’s mouth against his, Arthur straightened, went back to the typewriter, and started grimly hammering at the keys. Merlin sat there for a while, wondering why he was putting himself through this. He still felt so uncertain—never knowing if Arthur would meet him with affection or a brusque coldness. But he had never been able to stay angry at Arthur for long, never been able to deny him anything. He needed Arthur too much to think about the consequences.

**

_August 18, 1940. 1400 hours. Day 33._

Another new pilot arrived, fresh out of training, but they were still under strength. Kay’s Spitfire had been damaged in a brief sortie the day before, shooting glycol all over the cockpit and Kay’s face as he nursed it back to the airfield. Although the mechanics were still working on his plane, Kay joined them as they waited on stand-by, his fingers gripping the sides of his chair. Merlin rather wished he would go somewhere else.

“All this rationing business is absolutely wretched,” Tristan commented, flipping through the paper. They were lounging outside the ready room, still on stand-by. Merlin’s eyes kept closing, and he finally stretched out on the grass, pillowing his head on his Mae West.

“I think I’ll go buy a cow,” Tristan continued, “set up my own little dairy operation. Make my fortune selling butter.”

The new bloke—George Greene—flopped down next to Merlin. “I heard about your squadron when I was in training,” he said, his voice eager. Merlin bit back a groan.

“Probably all about what a tosser Tristan is,” he said, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

“Hey!” Tristan protested, and Greene laughed.

“No—but everyone knows about the Knights of the Round Table, as you’re called. One of the most impressive kill ratios in the RAF.” Greene lowered his voice. “Is Arthur really as good a shot as they say he is?”

“Of course it’s bloody King Arthur you’ve heard about,” Merlin groused. “Do you know how many times I’ve shot a Messerschmitt off his arse?”

“Maybe I could be called Gawain,” Greene continued, still excited. “You know, after the legend about Gawain and the Green Knight, what with my last name and all.”

“Gawain is taken,” Tristan said shortly, and Greene’s smile faltered.

“We’ll find something for you,” Merlin told him, closing his eyes again. He wished he could sleep for a week. “Now go practice climbing into the cockpit like a good lad.”

“I can do that just fine!” Greene said. “But I was wondering, Merlin—when you have two fighters coming at you, is it better to dive or—”

He broke off as Arthur burst out of the ready room. “Get them up!” Arthur shouted. “Get the bloody planes in the air! The Observers just called in a flight of bombers coming our way!” He hauled Merlin to his feet as he ran past, giving him a push towards his Spitfire.

They could hear the sound of the bombers now, a low hum reverberating through the air. Frantically, Merlin scrambled up into the cockpit, didn’t even pause to strap in, just started the engine and motioned for the aircrew to pull away the chocks. Kenley’s anti-aircraft guns started firing, and a second later, the first bomb hit. His Spitfire rocked back and forth, but he pushed the stick forward. A flight of Dorniers came into view, flying low over the treetops. Bombs were exploding all over the field, people running every which way.

Merlin practically ran into a lorry, his eyes still on the Dorniers. Then they were past, at least one of them with its engine stuttering and smoking. Craters pockmarked the field, and Merlin was trying to spot a clear route through them, when the whistling shriek of bombs came again. He peered up through the hood—a whole flight of Stukas were overhead, higher than the Dorniers, but just as deadly. Gritting his teeth, he accelerated, trusting that he wouldn’t tip right into one of the bomb craters. A plangent roar swept over him, and one of the hangars exploded. He lifted off a heartbeat later, praying that Arthur had managed to make it into the air.

The skies were just as confusing, Me 109s swooping down on the Spitfires that were struggling to lift off. Merlin could see one heading for him, and he tried to go faster and pull up, but he didn’t have the acceleration. His heart pounding, he fumbled for the guns, but the 109 was already firing and in a second he would be in the path of the bullets, too late to turn aside.

The 109 suddenly disintegrated in a ball of flame, and Arthur soared past him. “You just take your time, Merlin!” he shouted over the R/T. “Don’t worry about the damn Messerschmitts in front of you!”

“I was too busy worrying about the bloody bombs!” Merlin retorted, setting his sight on one of the Stukas and firing the machine guns, the bursts sending shockwaves jolting up his arms. Another Spitfire soared past, and Merlin recognized Lance’s symbol on the fuselage. Three of them had made it off the ground, at least. There were a few Hurricanes from 501 Squadron as well, shakily regrouping in midair.

He chanced a look down, and his stomach clenched. More hangars were on fire, and it looked like the station headquarters and sick bay had been hit as well. And there were burning planes still on the field—hit before they had a chance to take off. Maybe no one had been inside them. Merlin zeroed in on one of the last Stukas, tilting sideways and flying past the front, guns firing. The Stuka’s nose crumpled, and it started to crash, the pilots probably riddled with bullets. At the moment, Merlin didn’t care, felt a savage sense of vindication instead.

“64 Squadron, form up on me,” Arthur ordered. “We’re going to head over to Croydon while this mess is sorted out.”

Merlin followed Arthur, Lance coming right behind him. Greene appeared, miraculously unharmed. Galahad and Pellinore. But no sign of Tristan.

They landed at Hornchurch and clustered together, waiting while Arthur disappeared into the station headquarters. Greene stumbled off, falling to his knees and vomiting. Lance passed him a small flask of brandy when he returned, wiping his mouth, still pale.

“We’ve got the okay to return to Kenley,” Arthur said when he reappeared.

“Any word on the others?” Merlin asked, but Arthur shook his head.

“From what I could make out, the damage wasn’t catastrophic, but Sector Ops is moving to one of the shops in town. Beyond that, no one’s quite sure yet who is injured and who’s dead. We’ll just have to hope the Huns don’t return this afternoon.”

Merlin cast a nervous glance at the sky as he climbed back into the Spitfire, but it was empty. They returned to Kenley, carefully maneuvering around the crews clearing the field of debris. Merlin stopped by the blackened hulk of a Spitfire and stared at it, feeling sick. When he slid to the ground and caught sight of Arthur’s face, he knew it was bad news.

“I just talked to Bert, my rigger,” Arthur said wearily. “He saw it happen, right after I took off. Tristan was in his plane, getting ready to start the engine, and a bomb hit not more than a foot away. He never had a chance to get out before the plane exploded.”

Arthur sighed and started taking off his Irvin jacket, fingers methodically undoing the buttons. “Kay was hit by some shrapnel but should be all right. The rest of the squadron never made it to their planes—managed to take cover in a trench. Two of the Spitfires were completely destroyed.”

Two pilots down, three planes gone. Merlin tried to think, tried to move past it, but all he could see was Tristan, grinning and laughing. “He thought she was the one, you know. His latest girlfriend.” He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “Someone will have to tell her.”

“Right.” Arthur was just standing there, helmet dangling from his fingers, and Merlin pushed away the sorrow for another time.

“Let’s see if we can find something to eat,” he told Arthur, taking his arm. “Nothing like a bomb raid to work up an appetite.”

Arthur mustered a smile. “Hot tea and some biscuits, Merlin. And see about a bath.”

“Yes, sire,” Merlin replied, rolling his eyes. He did manage to scrounge a tin of biscuits and went back to find Arthur. When he did, Arthur was staring at the twisted remains of his Bentley.

“The sodding bastards!” Arthur shouted, and he kicked a hubcap, sending it spinning across the field. He grabbed what might have once been a handle and started tugging, furiously cursing.

“Hey.” Merlin yanked at his shoulder, pulled him away. “It’s just a car. Just a car, Arthur.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Arthur pushed him off. He shut his eyes, drew in a ragged breath. Merlin eyed him warily, but when Arthur opened them, he just held out his hand for the biscuits. “Give me a few of those. And go make sure our Spitfires get refueled. I better go see to it that these craters in our bloody airfield get filled in.”

Everyone kept listening for returning bombers all that afternoon, but nothing appeared. Merlin put off going back to his room for as long as possible. But finally evening came, and he had to open the door and look at Tristan’s suit coat, still lying on his bed, at the half-eaten candy bar Tristan had left on the table. Feeling drained and exhausted, Merlin went over to the window. He’d have to go through Tristan’s things, make a list, make sure they were sent off to his family. But he couldn’t face it at the moment.

He stood at the window for a while, looking out on the shattered airfield. But they were ready to go again tomorrow. They could get planes in the air, could fly out to meet the Huns. A lorry rumbled past under Merlin’s window and then Arthur stepped out of the officers’ mess. He paused on the doorstep for a moment before wandering towards the Spitfires, scattered across the field so there was less of a chance they would be hit if Kenley was blitzed again. Merlin hesitated and then walked quickly out of his room, clattering down the stairs and striding off across the base after Arthur.

He caught up to him by Arthur’s Spitfire. Arthur was running his hand over the wing. He looked as exhausted as Merlin felt.

“Hey,” Merlin said quietly, and Arthur looked up.

“Merlin,” he acknowledged. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Merlin reached for Arthur’s hand. His fingers were cold.

Arthur clasped his hand briefly, and then dropped it. He jerked his head, motioning for Merlin to follow him, and they moved around the Spitfire so that its bulk shielded them from the base. It was getting dark, a few pink clouds still hovering in the west.

Gently, Arthur nudged Merlin up against the Spitfire, leaning close for a kiss. Merlin kissed back fiercely, reveling in the taste and feel of Arthur against him.

“Merlin,” Arthur whispered, his voice ragged, pulling back to thread his fingers through Merlin’s hair and stare into his face. “God, Merlin. Today…”

“I know.” Merlin pressed against Arthur, seeking warm skin under Arthur’s jacket. He wanted more—wanted Arthur to keep kissing him, touching him so that he didn’t have to think about anything else.

Arthur’s lips trailed over his cheek, brushed his ear, sought out his mouth again. Merlin yanked on Arthur’s shirt, pulling it out of his belt, and finally slid his hands underneath, rubbing across the flat planes of Arthur’s stomach. Arthur slotted his thigh in between Merlin’s legs, nudging against Merlin’s hard length, trapped in his trousers. Merlin whimpered and started rutting against him, moving one hand down to rub against Arthur’s crotch.

“Oh, God,” Arthur groaned, resting his head on Merlin’s shoulder. They moved together, thrusting, the friction building until Merlin’s release washed over him, and he sagged back against the cool metal of the plane, gasping. Arthur came a second later, collapsing against Merlin’s chest. Merlin held him, one arm around his shoulders, the other slipping back under his shirt to stroke comfortingly.

Something cold and hard caught on his fingers, and he paused. “What’s this?” he asked.

Arthur pulled back a bit, not meeting Merlin’s eyes. “I doubt you’d remember.”

“Remember what?” Merlin reached into Arthur’s collar and drew out a fine chain. At the end—Merlin’s breath caught. It was hard to make out in the fading light, but he could feel the small dragon etched onto a button. “You still have it,” he said softly.

Arthur’s fingers tangled with Merlin’s around the chain. “I’ve hardly ever taken it off,” he admitted.

“Yeah?” Merlin’s voice shook a little, so he kissed Arthur again, and then pressed his mouth against Arthur’s neck, kissing along the top of his collar.

“It’s kept me safe all this time,” Arthur murmured, wrapping his arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “Maybe you really are a sorcerer.”

“The fact that I’m a damn good shot in a Spitfire is what’s keeping you safe,” Merlin retorted, but he carefully tucked the medallion back in Arthur’s shirt.

**

_August 25, 1940. 1300 hours. Day 40._

Merlin’s eyes felt gritty and tired as he peered at his controls. They were returning from a fight over Weymouth—eighty bandits and a heavy formation of Heinkel bombers. Pellinore had been shot, his plane spiraling down to crumple into the earth. Greene’s tail had been chewed to pieces, but he had managed to jump and hopefully made it to the ground safely. Rumor claimed that the Germans had taken to shooting at parachutists as they drifted to the earth. Just the thought made Merlin’s stomach twist. It was bad enough waking up at night thinking of the fighters and bombers he had shot down. He knew there were people inside them, of course, but he rarely caught sight of them. And if he didn’t have to see them, it was easier to pretend it was just a machine he was destroying. But to just shoot someone, defenseless, hanging in the air…no, he didn’t think he could bring himself to do that.

Although now he was so numb with exhaustion, he could hardly feel anything. The days all ran together into an endless round of patrols and fights, spikes of adrenaline and fear followed by tedious, boring hours on stand-by waiting for the ops phone to ring.

“Tighten up, Green Two,” Arthur said, and Merlin jerked, realising he had been drifting off right there in his cockpit. He managed to stay alert while they circled Kenley and landed, but when he switched off his engine, he couldn’t help closing his eyes for just a second.

He came awake to someone shaking his shoulder. Blinking open his eyes, he slowly became aware that Arthur was staring down at him, a smile on his face. “Oh. I fell asleep,” Merlin said stupidly, fumbling with his straps.

“How you’ve stayed alive this long,” Arthur muttered, giving him a hand.

Merlin’s limbs still felt heavy and tired as he followed Arthur towards the ready room, where a cook was dispensing trays of greasy sausages and eggs.

“I have good news for you, sleeping beauty,” Arthur said around a mouthful of sausage. “We’re being rotated out to Wittering for a while and have a few days of leave besides.”

“Really?” Merlin perked up at the thought of a few days of rest, of escaping the crushing tension of 11 Group for a bit.

“Really,” Arthur confirmed.

“I can go visit my mother!” Merlin grinned. “Eat something besides Bully beef for supper.”

“I suppose I’ll go up to London and see father.” Arthur didn’t sound too thrilled at the prospect.

“If you’d like to come with me, I’m sure my mum would love to see you again,” Merlin offered, trying to sound casual about it.

Arthur paused, and Merlin thought he was going to refuse, but then Arthur nodded. “I’d like that. Sure your mum won’t mind?”

“I’m sure. I’ll call her up today and let her know.”

**

_August 26, 1940. 0930 hours. Day 41_

They left the next day, driving in to Caterham and catching a train for London. Two days before, the Germans had bombed central London, hitting Oxford Street, Bethnal Green and West Ham. Churchill had immediately ordered a flight of Wellington and Hampden bombers to hit Berlin the following night. The BBC reported extensive damage, but the Germans were sure to retaliate in turn. Merlin felt a surge of hopelessness at the thought. They were barely managing to protect the airfields—if the Germans started heavy attacks on London as well, it would be too much.

Paddington was crowded with parents sending their children to the countryside to escape the bombing, with servicemen transferring from train to train. Merlin and Arthur managed to secure two seats in a train bound for Leicester, and Merlin pulled out a box of Fox’s biscuits to share. Arthur was fairly quiet on the journey, but it was a companionable silence. Merlin shifted his jacket slightly so that he could curl his fingers through Arthur’s without anyone’s noticing.

Arthur insisted on stopping at a shop when they finally arrived in Leicester to buy an expensive bottle of wine for Merlin’s mother. “You don’t have to,” Merlin told him, but Arthur waved off his protests.

They hitched a ride to Merlin’s village. He held his breath when they crested the hill, half expecting to see rows of bombed out houses. But it looked exactly as it had the last time Merlin had seen it. The only sign of the war was a regiment of Home Guards marching through the streets—headed straight for the pub, Merlin suspected. His mother was out in the garden, and she saw them coming, opening the gate and running down the street. Merlin caught her in a hug.

“It’s so good to see you,” she whispered, giving him a kiss on the cheek. She was crying a little when she drew back, but she smiled at Arthur. “And Arthur—why, I’d have hardly recognized you. You barely came up to my shoulder the last time I saw you, and now you’re such a fine young man.” She gave him a hug, and Arthur patted her awkwardly on the back. Sniffing, she beckoned for them to come into the house. “I have a nice supper all ready. You both look too thin.”

He and Arthur sat the table while she laid out the meal. Merlin flicked on the wireless, catching the end of a news bulletin. A song started right after it, and his mother reached over to turn up the volume.

“There’s no need to take cover,  
When you hear these engines sound.  
British planes are in the skyways, on their daily vigil bound.  
We’ll make one of their number, write our name upon the wing.  
When the planes are flying over, you will hear all Britons sing:  
There’s music in the sky,  
Don’t you hear the engines humming?  
Prepare to do or die,  
The British planes are coming.  
Steadfast, reliant, Spitfire or Defiant,  
So give a rousing cheer,  
The British planes are here!”

“I sing that to myself whenever I’m out in the garden,” his mother said, giving Merlin a proud smile.

“It’s not all that glamorous,” Merlin said awkwardly. “Not like that song makes out.”

“Nonsense,” Arthur put in. “Champagne every evening—toasted in all the clubs in London—no lack of dance partners. If there must be war, at least we can do it in style.” He gave Merlin a look that said: _Do you really want to be telling her about Gawain and Tristan and all the rest of it?_

No, Merlin didn’t want to do that. He wanted to listen to his mother’s voice as she related the village gossip, pretend that there wasn’t really a war for a few lovely hours. But he started dozing off during dessert, and Arthur was no better.

“We have all day tomorrow to talk,” his mother said, ushering them up the stairs. “I’ve made up the guest room bed for you, Arthur.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Emmeris. It’s lovely to be back here,” Arthur told her, and looked on, smirking, while she gave Merlin a goodnight kiss and smoothed down his hair.

Blushing, Merlin gave her another hug. “I’m fine, mum. No need to fuss.”

“I can fuss over you if I want to,” she said. “Now get a good night’s sleep, the both of you.”

After she had gone back downstairs, Merlin stepped closer to Arthur and tilted his chin up, giving him a soft kiss. Arthur smiled and kissed him back, and they stood there for a few moments, Arthur rubbing his hands up Merlin’s back while Merlin brushed his fingers through Arthur’s hair.

Arthur finally pulled away. “Sleep well,” he told Merlin.

Merlin gave him a sleepy, happy smile. “You, too. Nothing short of a bombing raid could wake me up once I fall asleep.”

“I’m pretty sure I could sleep through one of those, too,” Arthur commented, and he stepped into the guest room, closing the door behind him.

Merlin went into his old room and collapsed in the bed. He had spent so many nights lying here, struggling with his desires, the attraction he felt towards other boys. Memories of Arthur had always been a safe refuge, and he had imagined out so many scenarios, how Arthur would look and act, how Arthur would confess his own deep love and desire for Merlin. The reality wasn’t quite like that, no declarations, no promises, but at least he was falling asleep to the sweet knowledge that Arthur had been holding and kissing him only a few moments before.

**  
 _August 27, 1940. 1600 hours. Day 42._

Awareness slowly seeped in as Merlin awoke. He was wonderfully warm and relaxed. The distant hum of music on the radio filtered up from the kitchen. Stretching, he sat up, running a hand through his hair and yawning. Sunlight streamed through the window, and he reached for his watch, lying on the bedside table. It was almost four o’clock—he’d been asleep for about twenty-one hours.

Quickly, he threw on some clothes and went out on the landing. The guest room door was open, and he peeked in, but the bed was made and there was no sign of Arthur.

“Hey, mum,” he called, jumping down the stairs and going into the kitchen. “Where’s Arthur?”

His mother gave him a kiss. “He woke up a little while ago and is out in the garden.” She handed him a plate of sandwiches. “I was getting worried about the both of you—you wouldn’t wake up when I called you this morning. But Dr. Hargrove said not to worry, that you just needed to sleep.”

“You didn’t have to ring the doctor, mum,” he said around a mouthful of sandwich and held the plate up. “I’m going to take a few of these out to Arthur.”

Arthur looked up from where he was sprawled in the grass when Merlin came out and then hungrily reached for a sandwich. Merlin sat down next to him, taking another sandwich as well.

“God, I feel a hundred times better,” Arthur said when he had finished, stretching out on his back again. “No dreams, no one shaking me awake at four a.m.”

“Mmm,” Merlin agreed, curling up next to him. “I’m still sleepy, though.”

Arthur chuckled and took out a packet of Player’s cigarettes. He lit one, and Merlin lazily watched the smoke curling up into the air. “Being here brings back a lot of memories,” Arthur said.

“Of you being a spoilt brat?” Merlin asked and rolled away as Arthur tried to swat him.

“I think Excalibur is still sitting in the attic back in my father’s house in London,” Arthur said, relaxing, and Merlin returned, pillowing his head on his arm next to Arthur’s shoulder.

“What ever happened to Bristol?”

“He died a few years ago,” Arthur replied. “I still miss him sometimes.” He put out his cigarette and crossed his arms behind his head. “When all this is over, I’m going to get another dog. And a new aeroplane. And then I’m going to fly all over the world—Egypt, Italy, America.” He glanced at Merlin. “You could come along as my navigator.”

“Navigator?” Merlin shook his head. “No, I’ll be the pilot, you can tell me where to go.”

“It’s true, you probably would just get us lost,” Arthur teased, and Merlin poked him in the ribs.

“Do you really mean it?” he asked, settling down again. “You’d take me with you?”

“’Course I would,” Arthur said easily.

Merlin didn’t quite believe him, but he didn’t feel like pressing the matter. “I spent so many hours lying here just like this, pretending I was up there flying,” he said instead, blinking up at the blue sky, a few hazy clouds drifting over the sun. “I’d almost given up hope it would ever actually happen, though.”

“You wouldn’t give it up, would you?” Arthur asked. “Even if you could get a position on the ground with Fighter Command?”

“A desk job?” Merlin scoffed. “Not likely.” He glanced at Arthur and then took a harder look. “Did you say something? Were you trying to get me transferred?”

Arthur shrugged and looked away. “I asked around a little. Just to see.”

“Well, don’t.” Merlin glared. “I wouldn’t give up flying—not for anything.”

“All right,” Arthur acquiesced quietly.

“I know you feel the same way.”

“Yes. Father keeps writing to me, saying he can get me a place in Dowding’s office. But I couldn’t stand it.” He smiled. “Even though I’m scared shitless, waiting to go up—once I’m in my Spitfire—it’s just like it was that first time, with all the world opening up in front of me.”

They lay quietly for a few minutes and then Arthur said, “I noticed your mum calls you Merlin.”

Merlin felt a blush working its way up his neck. “I always liked it, more than my own name,” he admitted. “It made me feel—I don’t know, kind of special. Like there was more out there for me than a dead-end job in some factory. Even when I had to leave school, couldn’t get into the RAF, would never in a million years have enough money to actually buy a plane—I still kept hoping.”

“And now here you are.”

“Here I am.” Merlin touched Arthur’s shoulder. “And you’re King Arthur, defending Britain just like in the stories.”

Arthur laughed. “It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that.”

“But you are. We both are. And we’ll keep doing it. As long as we can.”

Arthur met his eyes and nodded. “As long as we can,” he agreed.

Merlin dozed off again, his hand still on Arthur’s shoulder, rousing when his mother called them in to dinner. They listened to the news while they ate—it had been a quiet day, no heavy raids reported, just a few high altitude patrols. He helped his mother with the dishes afterwards, while Arthur drew the heavy blackout curtains over the windows. Then they played a game of cards and his mum knitted, regaling them with all the news from the village. “I’ll be sure to tell Mrs. Archer you’re doing well,” she said to Arthur. “She often asks about you.”

“She does?” Arthur looked surprised, but pleased. “I’ll have to drop in and see her tomorrow on my way out.”

“But we still have another day of leave before we have to report back,” Merlin protested.

“I know. But I need to go see my father. Prove to him I’m still alive.”

That night, Merlin crept into the guest room. He hesitated at the door, but Arthur turned over in the bed and gestured for him to come closer. Merlin climbed in, sliding under the sheets, and Arthur slipped his arms around him. He nuzzled Merlin’s neck, his other hand slipping into the waistband of Merlin’s pajamas. Merlin gasped when Arthur touched him, and he clung tightly to Arthur’s shoulders.

“Good?” Arthur murmured, and Merlin nodded frantically. His orgasm came too fast, left him sweaty and limp in Arthur’s arms. Arthur thrust against him, tugging Merlin’s hand down to join with his own, stroking until Arthur’s release rushed over their fingers.

“I want you like this every night,” Arthur whispered hot in his ear.

**

_September 11, 1940. 1340 hours. Day 57._

Wittering was a quieter station, removed from the constant raiding and fighting that plagued the southeast. They spent more time with the newest pilots in the squadron, taking them up for practice dogfights, and listening to the radio for reports from London. On September 7, a thousand German bombers and fighters had closed on the city, wreaking havoc, and night and daytime raids had continued ever since. With the Germans extending their raids further northwards, there was a greater chance that wings in 12 Group would be called out.

“Patrol Harwich, Angels 30,” Arthur said as they took off. “Forty plus possible bandits.”

There were quite a few clouds around, and for a while, they flew through the misty whiteness. Merlin never liked flying through clouds, unable to see past his own wings, never knowing what would be waiting for him when they broke clear. But at first, there was only brilliant sunshine, a clear sky above them and the roiling clouds below.

Then he spotted the black specks, hovering off to their right. “Bandits, three o’clock.” He flipped on the electronic sight, readied his guns.

“Christ, it’s just fighters,” Arthur said as they approached. “Turn back—no wait, dammit, they’ve spotted us. Get ready for company.”

An entire swarm of Me 109s, closing quickly. Merlin grimaced and double-checked his instruments. Taking out fighters, while satisfying, accomplished nothing in the long run and always carried the possibility of losing a high number of defenders. The 109s could be deadly, particularly when they didn’t have to worry about protecting a flight of bombers.

“Break!” Arthur ordered, and the squadron split off into pairs, scattering before the oncoming fighters.

A Messerschmitt immediately got on Merlin’s tail, and he turned, body slammed into the straps. His Spitfire slipped in behind the 109, and it appeared within his scope, right between the crosshairs. Merlin fired, bullets ripping into the body of the fighter. It dived sharply, and he started to follow, but then pulled up when Arthur’s voice came over the R/T, strained and tight.

“I’ve got one stuck on me. Can’t shake him off.”

“On my way, Green One,” Merlin said, craning his head around. There—Arthur was twisting, but the 109 hung on, sparkling tracer curving towards Arthur’s Spitfire. Gritting his teeth, Merlin threw the throttle forward, the acceleration pinning him to the seat. Just a few seconds, and he’d be right behind the bastard.

“I’m hit!” Arthur called out. “Shit, my engine’s stalling.”

“Get out of there!” Merlin shouted, firing, even though he wasn’t close enough. Arthur’s plane flipped over, and a second later the hood opened and Arthur jumped. Merlin tried a few more bursts, but the 109 was turning away. Cursing, Merlin let him go, circling back to see Arthur’s parachute open. With a jolt of fear, Merlin realised they had flown out over the ocean. Arthur was going to hit the water.

Mouth dry, his fingers suddenly shaking on the control column, Merlin brought his plane lower. A faint white splash marked Arthur’s entry into the water, and then his parachute floated free. That meant Arthur was awake, cognizant enough to release the chute and inflate his Mae West. But he couldn’t survive in the water for long. Merlin scanned their surroundings—there had to be a ship close by.

There—a fishing boat—pretty far away, but they must have seen Arthur fall. Merlin kept his plane going in tight circles over Arthur, desperately trying to keep his eyes on the small figure in the waves. Twice, he almost lost sight of him, sweat pouring down his face as he yanked on the control column, forcing the Spitfire to stay in position, to mark Arthur’s location for the boat.  
It was moving towards them, but slowly, working its way through the choppy waves.

Merlin risked a glance at his petrol level—it was getting low. He’d have to leave soon or he wouldn’t make it back to the base. He could see Arthur, but couldn’t make out if he was unconscious or still swimming. The water had to be freezing, and Arthur’s flying suit would be dragging him down.

His engine was beginning to sputter when the boat finally drew alongside Arthur. Merlin saw them haul him in, but he couldn’t tell if Arthur was all right. Fighting down the panic choking his throat, he turned for land.

He barely made it back to the base, coasting in on the last fumes of petrol. Lance and the others met him, the question evident in their eyes.

“I think he’s alive,” Merlin told them. “A boat got to him and pulled him out.” Then he pushed by, went for the station headquarters, found a phone and began calling every hospital along the coast, asking if a fighter pilot had been brought there. The answer was always no, and Merlin began to fear the worst, that Arthur had drowned before the boat reached him.

“Merlin, we can’t do anything, either way,” Lance said quietly from the door. “We’re going back on stand-by. You need to be ready to go.”

“Damn it to hell!” Merlin said savagely. “I have to _know_.” He started calling the hospitals again.

He tried the one at Felixstowe again, and this time a nurse said “Yes,” in reply to his question. “Yes, he was brought in a few minutes ago.”

“And is he—is he all right?” Merlin asked, stumbling over the words.

A pause, and then the nurse spoke again. “He’s cold and a bit scraped up, but I believe he’ll be fine.”

Merlin put the phone back, trembling. Arthur was alive. He knew that could change tomorrow, knew that one or both of them could end up on the wrong end of a bullet, but for now…for now, Arthur was alive.

That night, Arthur returned, and when he jumped out of the lorry, Merlin went over and enveloped him in a hug, not caring who was watching them. Arthur gripped back.

“I thought you were never going to leave,” he said roughly, pushing back so he could look at Merlin. “Thought you were going to crash your bloody plane into the sea right on top of me.”

Merlin shook his head, blinking back tears.

“Merlin,” Arthur said gently. “You know what I tell the new pilots—no man is worth your tears.”

“You’re certainly not,” Merlin managed to choke out, and Arthur clapped him on the shoulder and brushed his fingers against Merlin’s as he went to greet the other members of the squadron.

**  
 _September 14, 1940. 2200 hours. Day 60._

The pub by the Wittering airfield wasn’t quite as nice as the White Hart, but still an excellent place to spend the evenings. It had been a very quiet day, although bombers had hit London the night before. There wasn’t really anything they could do about it, even though Merlin knew all of them longed to get up there and attack. But you couldn’t see a damned thing in the dark and the radar wasn’t good enough yet to pinpoint bombers—it was impossible to try and attack.

67 Squadron, another group of Spitfires, had been posted at Wittering for several weeks and had flown in one of Leigh-Mallory’s Big Wings.

“It really makes the Jerries sit up and take notice,” their CO said. He and Arthur were sitting at a table in the pub, Merlin, Kay, and a few other pilots clustered around them. “For once you aren’t facing a hundred planes with two squadrons. Instead, you’re practically at equal strength.”

Arthur sipped his drink and shrugged. “Maybe. From what I’ve heard, there isn’t a significantly higher kill ratio with a Big Wing than a few lone squadrons.”

“You lot were supposed to be protecting our airfields,” Lance put in. “That’s what your precious Big Wings were supposed to be doing. And instead you headed off for the action and left our bases undefended.” Merlin knew they were all thinking of Tristan.

The CO cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “We’ve had problems with coordinating the wings—always the possibility of a mix-up with Control, too. But you’ll probably have a chance to try it soon. If the Huns try another large attack on London, I’ve heard Park is going to order up a Big Wing from 12 Group.”

He and Arthur had both gone to Cambridge before the war, and they started off on a string of reminiscences. Merlin wandered over to the piano, wedged in a corner. It was a little out of tune, but better than sitting listening about a part of Arthur’s life he could never understand or participate in. Despite Arthur’s words, Merlin wasn’t convinced that if they survived the war, Arthur would make room for him in that other life—the life where he went on holidays to the Continent and played golf at exclusive clubs and chatted with members of Parliament over dinner.

And more likely than any of that, Arthur would be shot out of the skies. And Merlin would follow him, a day, a week, a month later, caught in the crosshairs of a Messerschmitt’s guns.

Trailing his fingers over the keys, he started singing softly.

“We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when,  
But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.  
Keep smiling through, just like you always do,  
‘Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away.

So will you please say hello, to the folks that I know,  
Tell them I won’t be long.  
They’ll be happy to know that as you saw me go,  
I was singing this song.

We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when,  
But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.”

When he finished, he looked up to find Arthur standing next to him.

“Do you believe that?” Arthur asked, and for once he looked uncertain.

Merlin got to his feet and rested his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “We found each other again once. Who’s to say it couldn’t happen again?

Arthur nodded, holding Merlin’s eyes for a long moment. He tilted his head. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Merlin said, and followed Arthur out into the night, back to the airfield, back to the Spitfires that stood silently in the dark, waiting to carry them into battle.

**

_On September 15, 1940, the Luftwaffe threw every bomber and fighter it possessed into a final assault on London. The first wave, spearheaded by 100 Dorniers and 400 fighters, attacked at 11:30. A second wave hit a few hours later. Churchill, observing the battle from Park’s underground operations room at Uxbridge, asked Park what reserves remained. “There are none,” Park replied. He had abandoned his usual policy of always keeping some squadrons in reserve, sending twenty-one into battle. Reinforcements from 10 and 12 Group also joined the fight._

_The Germans lost fifty-five aircraft, their highest losses in one day up to that point during the Battle of Britain. Throughout the summer, the German pilots had been told that Fighter Command was crumbling, that few Spitfires and Hurricanes remained to challenge them. Yet consistently, squadrons of fighters flew up to meet the bombers. The next day, the German Naval Staff faced the truth—the RAF had not been defeated; it still possessed the strength to defy them. Hitler had scheduled the invasion to begin on September 17, but after the Luftwaffe’s losses on the fifteenth, and with rough winter weather approaching that would make crossing the Channel difficult, he postponed the invasion. Although the Luftwaffe continued to bomb Britain for the next three months, the Battle of Britain had been won._

_2,917 men fought with Fighter Command during the Battle of Britain. 544 lost their lives. Another 795 would die in the long years of war that followed._

[ ](http://s1181.photobucket.com/albums/x424/riventhorn/Merlin/?action=view&current=img010.jpg)

A wartime poster published by the British government in recognition of the tremendous effort put forth by the RAF during the Battle of Britain

 

~Fin~

Notes:

*Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain resigned on May 7, 1940 under accusations from the Labour Party of appeasing Hitler and failing to provide the necessary leadership as the country marched to war. Foreign Secretary Lord Halifax, known as “Lord Holy Fox” because of his earnest, religious manner, and Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill were the two obvious candidates to replace him. Lord Halifax sat in the House of Lords and felt he would not be able to control the House of Commons and refused the invitation to replace Chamberlain. Churchill took the post and formed a coalition government, with Halifax and Chamberlain serving as members of a new War Cabinet, along with the Labour Party leader Clement Attlee and his deputy, Arthur Greenwood.

*August 13, 1940 was called Adlerangriff (Eagle Attack) by the Germans. On this day, the Germans planned to abandon their attacks on British shipping convoys and launch massive strikes against British airfields instead. The attack would be preceded, on August 12, by several bombing raids attempting to take out British radar stations. Throughout the attacks, the Germans suffered from poor intelligence, often striking airfields that were not actually part of Fighter Command. Even RAF stations that were hit were able to recover within a short period of time. The Germans also failed to effectively damage Britain’s radar system. From August 13 through September 6, the RAF’s airfields became the primary targets, along with night raids attempting to hit airplane factories. But on September 7, the Germans switched targets once again and began assaulting London. This shift in tactics was one of the Germans’ biggest mistakes during the Battle of Britain and allowed Fighter Command the time it needed to recover and keep sending planes to meet the Luftwaffe pilots.

*During the Battle of Britain, Leigh-Mallory, commander of 10 Group, pushed for the adoption of the “Big Wing” tactics. The Big Wing was composed of multiple squadrons that assembled together before going to meet the enemy. Air Vice Marshal Park, commander of 11 Group, preferred sending only a few squadrons that could get into the air faster. Big Wings took so long to assemble that they usually could not intercept the Germans before they reached their target, but Leigh-Mallory argued that it was better to try and cause extensive damage among the Germans. Dowding supported Park. The controversy caused a great deal of animosity in Fighter Command and in November, Dowding was asked to resign and Park was moved to commanding a training group. Leigh-Mallory replaced Park.

* _No Orchids for Miss Blandish_ was a controversial novel published in 1939. Set in America, it contained scenes of torture, murder, and rape. Lambasted by critics, it sold over half a million copies in Great Britain and was later turned into a stage play and a film.

*My three main sources were Patrick Bishop, _Fighter Boys: The Battle of Britain, 1940_ (New York: Viking, 2003); Tim Clayton and Phil Craig, _Finest Hour: The Battle of Britain_ (New York: Simon  & Schuster, 1999); and Len Deighton, _Battle of Britain_ (New York: Coward, McCann  & Geoghegan, 1980). The photos are all taken from Deighton, Bishop, and Ralph Barker, _The RAF at War_ (Alexandria, VA: Time-Life Books, 1981). And Wikipedia was excellent for tracking down popular songs and 1920s and 30s aircraft.

An excellent TV series is _Piece of Cake_ , which follows a squadron through the first year of the war, based on a novel of the same name by Derek Robinson.


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